


That's how you got killed before

by Gorrlaus



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drug Use, Hate Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Like really slow, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, crossdressing (sort of), strange pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-05-21 08:42:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 41,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6045211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorrlaus/pseuds/Gorrlaus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Brotherhood has caught one of the Railroad's top agents and tries to get intel from him. But torture has never been Danse's style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I figured there needed to be at least one fic with this strange and illogical pairing! Plus I saw a prompt on Fallout Kink meme that called out to my imagination. http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6855.html?thread=16587463#t16587463
> 
> This is a continuation of the first two chapters of the above kink prompt that someone else wrote, in which the Railroad and the brotherhood meet in a shoot-out at a bridge, and Deacon blows up a couple of Brotherhood soldiers, and is then caught and almost shot by Rhys before Danse stops him and says they need the prisoner for intel.

”If I may, you made a good call yesterday, Paladin” Haylen said and nudged Danse with her elbow. They were in the line for breakfast on the upper deck of the Prydwen. ”Maxson must be so pleased we got that agent. Good thing you had your head on and made sure that he was caught alive.”

Behind Danse, Knight Rhys banged his tray down on the counter in a demonstrative way. Haylen took no notice of him. ”Imagine, we got one of their top agents! We’re sitting on the key to getting the whole organisation wiped out. There is nothing that guy doesn’t know! All their hideouts, agents, what have you.”

Haylen grabbed a mutfruit shake from the counter while Danse helped himself to his usual razorgrain and scrambled mirelurk eggs. ”It’s just a question of getting the intel out of him as quickly as possible before they can change their positions. And if anyone can do that, it’d be Maxson!”

Danse looked longingly at the purple-pink mutfruit shakes, but decided against it. Too much sugar. Although he did feel like celebrating being instrumental in the soon-to-happen downfall of one of their enemy organisations. He grabbed one anyway, took his tray and followed Haylen to the table.

This morning, the mood on the ship was both sad and elated. They were mourning their fallen comrades from yesterday’s surprise encounter with the Railroad, but at the same time honouring their sacrifice. It hadn’t been for nothing. Now they were tantalizingly close to bring the Railroad to a screeching halt, with the Intel the prisoner known as ’Deacon’ was no doubt going to provide them with. Nobody had lasted more than two days with Maxson, as far as Danse knew. Maxson was very persuasive when he got going.

He shivered slightly at the thought as he savoured the sweetness of the mutfruit. He didn’t know exactly how Maxson executed his interrogations, and he didn’t want to find out. There were things his army did that he just had to accept, for the greater good of things. His job was to work the field, drawing up plans and do honest combat. The other, darker side of war he was happy to leave to others.

Haylen was babbling away with the man on the other side of the table, about Maxson's skills and how bright the future looked. Danse was thankful he didn’t have to make conversation. He ate his eggs in silence. Outside the ship, the day was sunny and clear, with the bluest sky he’d seen this side of the Rockies.

—

It had been a lousy night, and the forecast for today was even lousier. Deacon squirmed in the chair. The room was bright, lit by gigantic high-tech white ceiling lamps that glared down on his wigless head. He was glad he still had his sunglasses. Somehow they had managed to stay on his nose when the goons had hauled him from the Vetribird and dragged him down the stairs, into the lower bowels of the Prydwen. Deep into the shit, figuratively speaking.

His leg throbbed with pain in a very distracting way. Looking down, he could see parts of torn pant leather sticking out from the make-shift bandage they had slapped on in the 'bird. The sloppy wrappings were caked with blood, but at least they were holding everything in place. He couldn't expect more: proper medical care was not what the Brotherhood wanted to dole on him right now.

Behind the back of the chair he moved his hands experimentally, tried to get the metal wire that held his wrists together within reach of his fingers, but had to stop when pain from his pinkies rushed up his arms. His feet was secured to the legs of the chair with the same wire. Well then. This situation didn't offer much of a way out. He needed to talk to someone, use his words, and maybe it wouldn't be all Good Night Irene, Good Night, Time To Go. A soldier, medical staff, someone low-ranking and easily swayed to loosen the wire holding his hands or pave his way to sickbay, anything. Just one out, a single one, and he would grab it like a drowning man would a buoy.

Someone was approaching his cell with heavy steps. He stretched his back as much as his bindings would allow and put on a nonchalant face.

The door opened to reveal Maxson's ugly mug. So no luck there. If he'd manage to trick his way out via Maxson he'd even surprise himself.

Should have engaged the other guy in conversation. The first and so far only visitor to his little cell had been the trigger-happy ass from the scene at the bridge. Rhys. He had waltzed right it a couple of hours, bringing angry words and a wooden dowel with which he had unceremoniously broken Deacon's left little finger. Being tied to the chair with steel wire didn’t leave much room to do anything else but fight down bile and the sharp, sickening pain while Rhys had reached for his other pinkie.

But it was good. All good. He hadn't screamed then, and he'd try to avoid screaming as long as he could. He could not lose his composure. Many, many lives depended on it. Rhys had been the starter, the _entrée_ , a practise round to prepare him for what was to come. And here, now, was big meal. The big, scarred burly meal.

He smiled his best smile to greet the ape in the doorway.

”Hey there sugar-tots. Excuse me for not getting up, but I'm very attached to this chair. Man, I sure Iove this chair. So glad your goons put me in THIS chair. So comfy. A comfy chair.’

”You're Railroad.” Maxson growled. As a way of greeting, it wasn't much.  He stepped into the room, carrying a large toolbox. So they were going to start working on him now. Deacon wasn’t keen to find out what that toolbox contained. But unless his Railroad friends found a flying cavalry somewhere within the next hours and staged a rescue operation of such comebackish epic proportions it’d make the guys at Thermopyle blush, he had a hunch he'd get to know that suitcase intimately. Escape seemed less of an option with each passing second.

Behind Maxson, two other men appeared. Rhys was back, presumably to watch the show. With a hateful gleam in his eye and cheeks pink with excitement, he was obviously ready to take mental notes on Maxson's methods.

Next to him stood Danse, the guy who had decided to spare him and thereby raising the odds that the rest of his life wouldn’t be spent in any kind of comfort. Deacon didn’t know all that much about him: Danse (rank:Paladin, no first name) had quickly risen to a prominent position among the Bros, was a stickler for protocol, much like they all were, and had had something of a tricky childhood if the word on the street was correct. A model soldier. Efficient and correct.

Right now though he wore a miserable expression on his stubbly face. The guy was clearly not comfortable with the situation at hand. Deacon gave him an extra bright smile. Danse paled under his stubble.

—

It was not his choice to be here, but Maxson had made a suggestion that could easily be mistaken for an order, one he just could not refuse. His superordinate wanted him to come, to share the triumph when the prisoner broke down and got them that one precious step closer to their goal. And so he went.

Danse squirmed inwardly. It didn’t help that the prisoner seemed to have focused on him the moment he appeared in the door. It was hard to tell, but somehow he just _knew_ he was being picked apart and scrutinized. He steeled himself and stared back, ram-rod straight, into the dark sunglasses. Why was the man even wearing those?

He moved as confidently as he could into the room as Maxson put his tool case on a table and started unpacking his instruments. The man in the chair turned his head slightly to follow Danse's path. He swallowed as he took a position over on the prisoner’s right side, about two meters away, standing almost at attention and feeling painfully out of place.

The prisoner’s laugh lines suddenly creased for a second and then he smiled again. Did he just wink behind his glasses? Danse looked away in disgust. All these Railroad people were trash; delusional riff-raff. This man deserved everything he got. An enemy to the people, a sewer dweller, his clothes as tattered and torn as his moral.

But despite how he felt about the people in the Railroad, he did not want to be here for this. Much in the same way as he wouldn’t like to see a mole rat or a dog suffer. Kill and do it quickly, or don't kill. This whole ’forced extraction’ was not something that agreed with him.

His chief in command had placed himself in front of the prisoner, leaning forward expectantly.

”My intel says you’re third in command." Maxson looked calm, in the way vipers look calm. Danse shuddered. "Now, Railroad, there are some things you need to tell us.”

”Hey, that’s were you’re wrong pal. I’m not even with the R-”

Danse flinched as Maxson interrupted the prisoner with a quick strike to his mouth, then one to his temple, breaking the skin and sending the sunglasses flying. They crashed into the wall and cracked, one lens ricochetting in another direction. Maxson finished the onslaught with a punch to the man’s jaw, splitting his lower lip. Danse glanced at Maxson, seeing what was boiling under the surface. He would not want to be the one sitting in that chair right now.

The prisoner slowly turned his head to face Maxson again. His eyes were closed, blood dripping down his chin onto his ratty white tee.

Maxson flexed his fist. ”Tell us what you know, third-in-command. Or you will regret it. First, the location of your safe-houses.”

”Hey…I tell you, mate.” The prisoner spat blood. His eyes were still closed. Danse wondered if there was something wrong with them. ”Third in command? Like I said, I’m not with the Railroad, and even if I were, that's a pretty anal way of describing it. Typical Brotherhood bullshit to apply strict military terms to everything. Well I wou-”

He was interrupted by another punch from Maxson, targeting his mouth again.

Danse winced inwardly as he saw the prisoner’s head snap sideways with the force of the blow. A tooth hit the floor, followed by a spurt of blood. He could hear Rhys snicker from where he had taken up position, next to the exit.

”...wow, rude much?” The prisoner showed his red-stained teeth in something that looked like a smile. ”You don’t interrupt people. That’s just rude. I’m trying to help you here, I really am, but you’re not making it easy for me." Blood was running in small trickles from the corners of his mouth, his tee turning more and more crimson.

"I was just about to give you all our safehouses, but now - I’m not gonna do that. Seeing how rude you are. Now, get me a beer. I have to rinse my mouth. I think there’s a tooth in my esophagus.”

Danse was reluctantly impressed. The agent didn’t tremble, didn’t seem afraid, wasn’t even showing any signs of pain or discomfort, despite his shirt rapidly changing colour and one of his teeth decorating the floor. This was not something he had expected from a Railroad member.

If Maxson was unnerved by the stoic disposition of their prisoner, he didn’t let on.

”Open your eyes.”

”I don’t wanna.” Deacon squeezed them shut even harder.

”Open them, or I’ll cut your eyelids.”

Danse watched as the agent opened first one, then the other eye. Then squeezed them shut. Then the first eye opened again.

”Peekaboo”.

When Maxson pulled out his knife however, both eyes obediently flew open. The agent blinked against the bright light in the room.

His eyes were blue, intensely blue in contrast with all the red around them. His right cheek had begun bruising and swelling from the blows, and blood was trickling down from his temple. Danse looked on in fascination as the prisoner blinked away a drop of red. When the agent met his eyes, Danse could see that his gaze was sharp and alert, piercing. Nothing like the naive and cheery demeanour he put up in front of them. He wondered if Maxson saw it too.

It was true that Danse sure didn’t want to be in that chair, but with a jolt he realised he didn’t really want to be in Maxson’s clothes either.


	2. Chapter 2

The ship is bustling with rumours. Two days has passed since the incident at the bridge and the subsequent capture of the Railroad agent, and yet there is no news, no information coming from lower decks. People are starting to wonder. Could it be that Maxson, their most competent soldier and guiding light, is failing at his task?

After Danse had excused himself from the cell two days ago, right after Maxson had stripped the prisoner bare and brought out the first of his many instruments, he has seen nothing of his superordinate. Maxson spends the mornings locked in his office, dispatching patrols and keeping in contact with HQ, and the afternoons and evenings down in the cell.

Rhys hadn’t said anything about the situation when he and Danse had been out on patrol, and Danse didn't ask. Inside however, he is dying to know what's going on. He is one of the first people to be informed of any new intelligence, damnit, but now it's almost like Maxson is avoiding him. Has the prisoner talked, and what has he said?

He finds he has been thinking a lot about that agent lately, more than would be logical, or even reasonable.

In his bed that night, he recalls how ’Deacon’ had looked at him; the blue, wide-set eyes piercing deep into his mind. Turning restlessly, he lets his thoughts wander to the agent's body, how surprisingly muscled it had been under that ratty t-shirt. A soldier's physique. Danse sighs into his pillow. But the Railroad isn't military. Or are they? The man had taken the punches in stride, and didn't seem bothered by having his clothes cut off. Good training. Good composure. Not being embarrassed by forced nakedness in front of his enemies.

Danse however had been embarrassed enough for two. It was just not right. The bare, pale skin, and all that blood painting it red. He twists and turns in his bed, getting tangled up in the sheets. Sleep doesn't come easy.

—

On day three after the incident, he finally gets some information. Soldiers stationed at launch deck, close to the prison quarters, say they have heard screaming throughout the afternoon.

In the evening, four small combat units are dispatched to follow up on information given by the prisoner.

Two of the four combat units return the next morning, describing their targets as nothing more than old abandoned farmsteads. The other two units don't come back at all. After some tense waiting, radio traffic divulges the true nature of the two last ’Railroad safe houses’ - Deathclaw nests and mutant dens. Eight good soldiers killed due to false intel. Danse gets a glimpse of an angry Maxson storming down a corridor with Rhys in tow, heading for the cells.

-

”He sent us all over the Commonwealth on wild goose chases. We are starting to look like idiots.” Haylen says. ”Seriously. It’s just this one guy between us blasting the Railroad off its track, or, dare I say it, Maxson losing face. Shit, will you look at that. I forgot to clean my weapon.” She picks tiny flecks of lint and grease off her laser pistol, rolls the muck into little balls, and flicks them out of the Vertibird.

Danse mulls on this while their craft makes a swoop over a water cleaning facility. All seems calm. The hanging bags of mutant-hoarded flesh rots peacefully in the warm afternoon and nothing stirs the green mirror surface of the large dams.

”If you ask me, that man is never going to talk” Danse says, more to his weapon than to Haylen. She appears not to have heard him over the smattering of the propellers, busy studying the shoreline below. They have turned east and is following the river towards the sea, flying over old harbours and beaches. He thinks of the prisoner again. The guy is probably having a really bad day, while he is up here admiring the view.

Haylen raises her gun and shoots a bird that is on a collision course with their craft. Its corpse spins as it tumbles towards the earth, right into a mirelurk nest. At least it's someone’s lucky day today.

He shakes off his melancholy. ”So about that agent, has Rhys mentioned anything..? What is the plan?"

”He hasn't given any information. Or, yeah, he did say that Intel has given us nothing on the guy.” Haylen has her pistol raised and ready, no doubt looking for more birds to practise her aim on. ”No friends, no family, no background. It’s like he doesn’t exist outside the Railroad.”

”Strange.” Danse says. Then: ”Why would Intel check his family?”

”It was Rhys’ idea. He figured leaning on someone’s spouse or child would get them talking. Bringing any children to the Prydwen…” She stops when Danse stares at her like she has grown another head.

”I know technically it’s not right Dan, but it’s like - wasting one life to save countless others. All for the cause, yeah?”

”Is that what we do now? ’Leaning’ on our enemies’ children, in addition to torturing them?”

”He got another eight of our soldiers killed! Are you saying we should go easy?”

”I’m saying.” Danse is surprised about how angry he is. ”that there are limits in warfare. It might just be possible we have underestimated the Railroad. Or at least that agent. We should cut our losses, that’s what I think.”

Haylen hesitates. ”I do see your point, I really do. But I trust Maxson unconditionally. If he think this is the way to go, then it’s the best way to go.”

”Yeah. Of course.” Danse says. On his side on the craft, a flock of birds appears. He doesn't tell Haylen about them.

 

—

The world is pain. An all-compassing, white-hot pain thunders in his skull and shoots tendrils of shocks down his spine. It's impossible to think about anything at all. After some time (a second? a minute?) it stops. He pants as he hangs from his wrists. Even breathing is harder these days. It feels like he had been hanging like this for years. He wishes he had his sunglasses. Keeping his eyes closed only does so much against the white, tearing light.

”Where are the safe houses?” The voice is muffled, barely coming through over the insistent buzzing in his ears. Maybe some delicate membranes have loosened from the electric shocks. ”I’m in direct radio contact with our patrols. Give me the locations and all this can stop now. You have the initiative. Just give me the names and it’ll stop.”

He moves his jaw, tries to get his tongue to work. As long as he has words he's not defenceless. "...I gave them to you, it's not my fault Deathclaws moved in -".

The metal stick in Maxson' hand crackles and fizzes as it makes contact with his skin, this time his genitals. For a while (maybe three seconds? Eight?) his mind goes blank again, body spasming.

After it ends, he has to make an effort to remember where he is. Prydwen, Maxson, right, lower deck, shackles on hands and feet. It's gonna be over soon. It has to be, or he might go insane first and that won't be a pretty picture.

A big hand grabs him by the throat and a needle pricks his neck. New energy comes crashing in like a tidal wave as his body kickstarts its healing, cells knitting new tissue over cuts and breaks. Another Stimpak. Giving Maxson a somewhat more alert and whole canvas to paint on.

The big ape's voice is close to his ear:”Agent Deacon? I’m good at keeping people alive. Do yourself a favour. Your cause is already lost.”

He opens an eye. ” _Our battle is more full of names than yours. Our armour all as strong, our cause the best._ ”

Maxson's beard seems to bristle even more, by sheer indignation. His mouth turns into an upside-down smile. ”The Bard. How ironic to hear such great words from a low-life like you.”

Well, if there had been any doubt about Maxson he could settle them now. Only a pretentious ass would refer to Shakespeare as ’The Bard’. He takes some solace in that as the stick fizzes into life again.


	3. Chapter 3

Five days into Danse’s moral dilemma and he has made exactly eight random errands to lower deck. The area is one of the least staffed parts of the ship, so there are no questioning looks every time he slowly walks past the cell door, ears perked as he listens to the screams and Maxson’s low, insistent voice. It’s like a stingwing bite you just can’t help but scratch, even though it hurts and bleeds.

The man in there is a traitor to his own race, undermining everything the Brotherhood fights for by employing dishonest guerilla tactics. And the Elder is only doing what needs to be done - like Haylen said, sacrifice one to save many. He can absolutely see the logic. Maxson is, after all, never wrong.

Danse leans against the wall on the side of the cell door, suddenly lacking the energy to leave. A cry pierces through the metal, accompanied by the stench of burnt flesh. He thinks of the man’s eyes again. _Why can’t the traitor just die?_ The screams would stop and everything would go back to normal.

He rubs his face hard in an effort to clear his thoughts. It’s like he’s being tested by some unknown merciless god, set out to ruin his career and by default his whole life. The Brotherhood has given him a meaning, a family… But this…no. This is not what he signed up for.

The burnt smell is horrible, but he can’t find it in himself to walk away.

—

”It goes according to plan, Sir. Except he won’t eat or drink.” Rhys says when Danse finally asks. ”Stimpaks can only do so much, so I am to assist with the force-feeding.” The fact that he was chosen for this task is clearly something to be proud of, judging from how Rhys tries to stand a little bit taller in his armour. The effect is somewhat lost, as the only discernible result is a groaning sound when the back plate scrapes against the helmet. Danse rolls his eyes, unseen in his own armour. Being asked to assist with torture - it’s like Rhys can already smell his promotion.

If Danse liked the man maybe he’d find his blood lust ambitious and his ambition an asset. But he really is a bit of an asshole. What Haylen sees in this guy he’ll never know.

—

By pure chance and a bit of planning, Danse bumps into Maxson as the Elder is about to cross the mess hall and ascend to his office.

”Good morning Sir. Do you have a moment?”

”For you Paladin, I do.” Maxson looks haggard; less fiery energy in his eyes and broad shoulders not as commanding.

”About the Railroad agent, Sir. When I accompanied you and Knight Rhys to the cell on day one.. I think he thought he recognized me.” Danse lies. ”He could have followed me around in the field. Or maybe he’s confusing me with someone else. I suggest I take the afternoon shift today, to play on that. Just me and him. Try to establish a connection.” _Stop the torture, at least for a few hours. Try to figure out what the hell I’m gonna do._

Maxson looks as relieved as he has ever seen him. ”Good thinking, Paladin. We need to approach this obstacle from different angles. Keep him busy until I arrive.” Maxson quenches a sigh; it comes out as a snort. The worry-line between his brows deepens. ”Or at least get some water into him. Do what you can, but just know I don’t except any results. That man is..” He sighs again and looks away, eager to get on with his daily schedule. ”Go. I’ll take over at 19.00 hours.”

His heart is pounding when he takes the stairs down to lower deck, this time with a real purpose. At the beginning of the cell block corridor he gets some stims and a water bottle from an aid box, immediately dropping one of the stims. He is nervous, no two ways about it. Not knowing what to expect is business as usual. But it has been a long time since he didn't know what to expect from himself.

—

So this is how it’s going to end, Deacon thinks. Not a terribly glorious death. It’s smelly and far, faaar too slow for his taste. Not that he can even do ”slow death” right - he should be eating and drinking to get a few more days, to engage Maxson as long as possible and keep him off the streets. But he’s too afraid. Once a coward, always a coward.

It would’ve been so much better to snuff it in the field, in a shootout with supermutants, making one final glorious, self-sacrificing jump into the arms of a mutie Suicider and saving a group of crying children or peaceful settlers with dogs who just had scores of fluffy puppies with pink noses. Maybe frightened hostages who needed his help. Grannies.

Dying a noble death, as a final atonement.

One of the many, many things he regrets is not reading more books. Such a wealth of literature in the old decrepit libraries and so little time to read them, with ferals and raiders vying for attention. There were a lot of promising-looking books that he didn’t find time nor opportunity to investigate. And now he will never get to read them.

So many ’nevers’ and ’never agains’: A beer at The Third Rail, watching the sun set over the Glowing Sea, finding one of the "Old Antique Shops" caravans traders told stories about, making out with Magnolia for shits and giggles..

…being around for the liberation of the Synths and an equal Commonwealth for all. Gods, he’d have loved to see that!

So yeah, this basically sucks. He tries not to think about what is currently trickling down his mangled leg, over his heel, and making a warm puddle under his toes. He is leaking in more places than one. Running out of fuel. It’s sort of a good/bad sign he can still feel his legs: bad because the next time Maxson runs a red-hot razor into his thigh he’ll feel it, and good because…well some stubborn part of him loves to have legs and wants to keep them as long as possible.

Maybe he’ll meet someone he knows on the other side, if there is an other side, which there probably isn’t. Death is death and any afterlife would be religious fantasies. God knows he has prayed though, once in a while, just in case someone was listening. He smiles inwardly at the irony. And here he is now, praying he won’t go to heaven. To not see Barbara.

He still remembers her hands perfectly, how they felt when she had unbuttoned his shirt, when she ran them over his chest, standing in the sunshine in their hard-plowed tato field. They had a good thing going there. Before it ended.

Or maybe he is tricking himself with false memories again. Yeah, that’s a definite possibility.

There’s a rattling sound at the door; someone unused to the lock.

Somehow he missed the moment when the door opened, because now there is a man standing in the room: rigid and stout, small chin, dark stubble, thick eyebrows… he can’t think of his name. Well, isn’t that a bummer. Nothing to do about it. He lets his head sink down to his chest.

—

Danse almost drops the water bottle. Then he almost drops the stims. Gathering himself into a soldier’s posture, he clutches his things to his chest and swallows hard.

The agent is hanging from his wrists in the middle of the room, his body showing with every desirable detail what Maxson has been up to. It’s like looking at a patchwork of red and white with occasional spans of blue. The injury to the man’s leg is probably the worst Danse has seen on somebody still alive. When they had brought the agent in, it had been a clean break with only minor lacerations to the skin. Maxson must have repeatedly hit or kicked the very place where the first fracture occurred. Bits of bone are sticking out through the skin in a way that is absolutely sickening, while the streaks of fluids down the leg tell of untreated infections.

It would be easy to leave, to just forget about the prisoner and let his boss get on with it, for as many days as Maxson wants. He could just pour the water on the floor and none would be the wiser.

But that is not why he is here. It’s enough to look at the man’s face to get his resolve back. He shall do all he can within the rules of the Brotherhood to treat this prisoner well.

With newfound courage, he uncorks the water bottle and walks up to the hanging man. The stained floor is littered with empty stimpaks that crunch under his feet. They are forming a cluster right under the broken leg, which seems to be the hotspot for injections. He is careful not to not step in the puddles of god-knows-what.

The prisoner doesn’t react when he approaches, head sunken to his chest and eyes closed. His unshaven cheeks and chin has taken on a dark reddish hue, making the rest of his face look even paler. A mat of red stubble is covering his scalp. Danse gently lets the cold bottle touch the man’s cheek.

”I have brought water.” he says uncertainly.

The agent seems to be pretty out of it, but the touch of cold makes his brow furrow. Running the bottle lightly along his jaw seems to get some life into him. The coldness is perhaps soothing. Maybe pouring a tiny amount of water on his face could do the trick.

The water has an immediate effect - when the first drops land on the man’s bloody forehead, his eyes open. Squinting, with pupils like tiny pin-pricks of black in the harsh light, the agent tries to focus on Danse’s face.

When their eyes meet, it’s like someone has pulled the floor from the room and replaced it with open sea. Danse swallows, feeling woefully unprepared and confused. His belly lurches, hot and cold with shame, and he has to make an effort not to look away. He has no direct part in this - butchery!

”Water.” he rasps, holding the bottle in front of the agent. ”You must drink.”

Clearly his persuasion skills need a little work because a wave of determination passes over the man’s pale face and he presses his bloody lips together in a meaningful way.

”You have to drink, or you’ll die.”

The man exhales, a disbelieving snort.

”Well, ok.” Danse says. Maybe that isn't a winning argument in this particular situation. ”But I do have my orders.” He grab the man’s stubbly chin gently but firmly, and presses the bottle to his closed mouth. It’s the wrong angle, and it doesn’t do much good, but at least it washes some blood and muck off his face.

A moment later Lady Luck is on his side as he accidentally presses the guy’s head a fraction to the right and something goes _crunch_. There’s a yelp of pain, and a couple of drops find their way into the open mouth.

Now there’s a thought. To give the water a fighting chance of not ending up on the floor, he could push a finger into the swollen cheek, or press on the broken nose with his thumb. When the prisoner would protest or scream he would tilt the bottle. It’s how Maxson would do it.

Doing anything like Maxson would is suddenly a revolting thought. After half the contents of the bottle has trickled down the prisoner's face and onto the floor, he settles for screwing the cork back on and putting the flask down next to the toolbox.

The toolbox: Maxson’s storage of Med-X and stims and metal rods, pliers, screws, and god-knows-what. It’s nauseating. There are horrible-looking instruments he can’t even guess what they are for. They are ordered very neatly, in their own little compartments, sparkling clean and expertly oiled. There is not a fleck of blood inside the box.

He looks at his infowatch. Four hours until his superordinate arrives. Until 7 PM he can sit here and not be Maxson and give this man some respite.

”Why…what…”

He turns around. The prisoner had his eyes closed again, brow furrowed with the concentration of speaking.

”…are…you waiting…for?”

”I’ do not intend to do anything except assist you with drinking. Consider this a break in your schedule. Maxson is busy.”

”Ha -” The prisoner pauses to draw a breath, rib cage heaving. ”..ha ha. Schedule….You’re…” He trails off, head sinking down.

Standing this close, the details glare at Danse in all their clarity. There are slashes across the agent’s chest, and down over the stomach, that looks like they have been made with a red-hot knife. Burnt skin frames the bloodless gashes as they trail down towards the groin area. How could a human do this to another human? 

Danse considers making a statement about how unfortunate this whole situation has become, when he realises his audience of one has fainted.

"Agent Deacon.. can you hear me?” The man’s eyes are closed and his mouth slack. His face is oddly featureless in unconsciousness, red brows and pale lashes blending with the blood.

Feeling somehow like a traitor, he grabs a stim and injects it into the man’s flank. This must be the latest stimpak of about 40, judging from the packages on the floor.

It's like magic everytime a stim does its job. The swelling in the man’s face is ever so slightly reduced, and the long cuts grow a little fainter. His eye lashes flutter with new chemical life.

Danse gently thumbs the entry point to help it spread, make every drop do good. ”Agent Deacon. Just give Elder Maxson what he wants. Your organisation is doomed either way.”

”If I do... It’s not like…you lot will send me …walking out of here… with a pat on the back…and 20 caps for coffee.”

”No. But you can end it quickly.” He pauses, stopping himself from adding ’ _please_ ’. ”You’ve been here five days. They will start force-feeding you tomorrow.”

”…great. I’m just…stick it out…keep Maxson busy”

A wave of respect swells in Danse’s chest. This man is so brave. What a pity he is not fighting for the Brotherhood.

He suddenly remembers he has forgotten to introduce himself. ”I am Paladin Danse.” he says awkwardly. ”My official purpose here is to get you to ingest fluids.”

The prisoner regards him with a curious look. ”Right. Danse. I totally…knew that. Actually…I think I’ll have some …water after all.”


	4. Chapter 4

Maxson’s office is situated on the upper deck of the _Prydwen_. He is glad to be away from the confinements of HQ, standing like this by one of the windows and looking out over Boston. This room is Spartan, effective, and imbued with a sense of freedom. The _Prydwen_ is always ready to move.

It's nothing like the office at the Citadel. Over there, a long corridor that seems grand enough for a castle leads the way. At its end an imposing construction of a door looms, fitted with as much metal as the wood can safely carry. Upon entering, the visitor sees the history of the Brotherhood lining the walls, mounted in thick heavy frames. Stern men glare ominously down from their canvases. The latest painter, whoever it was, has captured his predecessor well. It's harder to tell when it comes to the others.

And the end of the row of paintings there is an empty space for Maxson's own portrait, and right underneath it there’s the Commander's desk. As soon as he was made Elder, It was decided that he should have the best place in the room.

The honour both amuses and annoys him. In the future, the next Elder of the Brotherhood will have his painted ghost breathing down their neck, watching over their shoulder.

He should do away with all those paintings. Make a bonfire and burn them as false idols. The past only serves as warning, a catalogue of mistakes to learn from. He has learned, and improved, and done what the old people on the walls failed to achieve. It has nothing to do with what they have told him about his heritage; that he has a soul forged from eternal steel and mumbo-jumbo about blood-lines being a factor in his success. Ruthlessness and skill has taken him to where he is - a Master of a Master tribe. The ranks can go no higher.

In the window pane he can see his own reflection super-imposed over the cityscape. The _Prydwen_ has docked at an altitude from which one barely can make out any living beings. All the people going about their business, and the ghouls and mutants, they appear as nothing more than fire ants swarming about. All ripe to be stomped out by the Institute. The wastelanders are pathetically ignorant of their fate. Ungrateful to those who has taken it upon themselves to defend them from the Institute, and from synth-lovers like the Railroad. Like the traitor down in the cell.

He is secretly thankful that Danse offered to take the afternoon shift. To pit his force against individual enemies is something Maxson finds most pleasing - it's a challenge he always wins.

But despite all the time and energy he has invested in this case, the redhead has not broken.

It is surprising; he had thought the agent would give up after a day, maybe two. The third day he believed he nearly had him. Few men can handle the expertly applied pain, the repeated disgrace. But time and time again something in the agent’s eyes had snapped back into place and his will re-forged itself into iron. 'Deacon' had fought him every second of their time together with a quiet desperation. First with stupid puns and Shakespeare quotes, and then with some primal, unrelenting willpower.

Maxson runs a hand over his beard, studies his reflection in the glass. A soul of steel against a will of iron. He has a few tricks left, and he will triumph. He always does.

 

\---

 

Danse looks at the man's adams apple moving under the bruised skin. He holds the bottle firmly as the agent gulps down water like his life depended on it.

Well, this is progress. He doesn’t know what the magic word was, but somehow he has managed to achieve in under one hour what Maxson couldn't do for five days. He should be more pleased about it than he is.

The agent is drinking fast, greedily pushing his mouth to the bottle so no drops can escape, eyes half-lidded in bliss. Danse can only imagine how good it’d feel to taste water for the first time in days. The contents of the bottle are disappearing quickly.

Suddenly he remembers how Haylen always used to vomit after their desert trainings, drinking too much too fast. He angles the bottle away. ”Hey, that’s enough. Any more and it’ll come right back up.”

Just as he has finished the sentence, the agent starts heaving. The water exits again, in a less orderly fashion. Danse steps aside to avoid getting any of it on his uniform. It’s painful to see the prisoner's belly hollow out, pushing up under the ribs in an effort to expel the content of his stomach.

”Okay. Easy now.” Danse says, not knowing if he should pat the man on the back or not. Hanging from one’s wrists must be a very uncomfortable position to throw up in. He wishes he could release the chains and let the agent down, help him vomit properly. And get him more water, and goddamnit, get him some real food, a bed and treat him like a fellow human.

He makes the decision to pat the man very lightly on the back, as a symbolic gesture. ”Hopefully you got to keep some of it. I think there’s less water on the floor than it was in the bottle.”

”… lousy table manners.” the agent croaks, saliva strings dangling from his mouth. "…but there's no table…so no matter.."

The water must have done some good because he is looking at Danse in that piercing, investigating way again. ”Good to…flush the system. Can you hit me…up with a stim? ”

Sure, that he can do. Danse picks up another package from Maxson's stash and injects the chem in the same spot as before. The agent's eyes are on him all the time, watching his every move. He feels flustered and self-conscious as he puts the empty package next to the toolbox. It's quite unnerving to be studied so intensely.

”Thanks Paladin. Me hanging around here, for _days_ , with only that ape for company…no fun." The agent bites his lower lip, finally breaking eye contact.

 "You introduced yourself, so I wanna do the same. As I've been telling your boss several times, I'm not 'Deacon'. My real name is Abe. Abe Moley. I am with the Railroad, I'm not denying it. But only as a runner." The man is talking fast now, hoarse and out of breath. "I don’t know anything so I can't tell you anything! You think I wouldn't talk if I knew? I don't like being tortured!" His voice almost breaks on the last word.

"I don't believe you. Your own people identified you at the bridge." Danse says. There's no way this brave man is a mere runner. Even third in command is starting to sound far-fetched.

”I swear, it’s true." 'Abe' looks at him with eyes less piercing than they were a moment ago. He almost looks...normal. "I just happened to tag along with the caravan. You misheard what the Railroad person called out, she called out to a guy behind her to get cover. That was Deacon back there.”

”There were only two Railroad people at the scene, you and that woman.”

”That’s how good this guy is. He just disappears. One of the Railroad’s best agents, for sure. A genius.”

Danse ponders this. It is a wonder the agent is still lucid, heck, even alive, after Maxson's handiwork. Normal people would have caved days ago, giving up all their secrets and then beg for death. The fact that this man hasn't could prove that this is indeed Deacon, a trained agent. However, the same fact could also prove that this is just some everyday guy without any intelligence to give.

But a third man at the scene? Surely they wouldn't have missed him?

"Look, Paladin, even if you don't believe that, believe this: I have two little daughters. Lucy and Mia -”

”No, don’t tell me!” Danse blurts out. ”Don't give me any information about civilians!”

The prisoner ignores him. He looks desperate, eyes tearing up. ”My girls, they’re three and five years old. The loveliest curly hair you ever seen. Living with their mother. But I see them a lot. Please, for the sake of my children, help me. Help me get out of here so I can see them a- again.”

There's a sting of sorrow in Danse's chest as the man struggles with his emotions, blinking away tears in a brave attempt not to cry.

"Look. We will get your family as well, don’t you understand? If you keep talking like this I have to leave! I can't know these things.” He backs a couple of steps towards the door to put emphasis on his words. Leaving would be disobeying orders, he should stay here until Maxson arrives, but staying…he doesn't want to think about what Maxson would do to this man's family. If he has one.

The agent has thankfully fallen silent. Maybe it was a stupid decision to come here. He's just prolonging this man's suffering, and if someone is eavesdropping by the door he's well on his way to a serious reprimand.

He paces helplessly to the table, then to the wall, then back again.

”You don’t approve of torture, Paladin?” The agent has closed his eyes, his voice soft and sympathetic.

”No, I do not.”

”Then help me.”

Danse groans. "I cannot help you in any way. I can only encourage to tell us everything you know about the Railroad. And give you chems. That's all."

There are three hours left until Maxson will arrive. The man asks for more water.

 

—

 

"Whoa...the amount of ugly in this room...just skyrocketed."

Maxson ignores the prisoner. "Very good, Paladin." He kicks the empty water bottle across the room. It bounces back from the far end wall, skidding over a dried patch of blood. "You got him to drink, so let's get some food into him as well. But first.."

He reaches out and, with a single twist, unhooks the chain holding the prisoner in mid-air. The man drops like a sack of bricks, making a hoarse animal-like noise when he hits the floor. His mouth gapes like a fish when he tries to move weight off his crushed leg, only to lean on a bruised shoulder. Arms not working properly, he ends up falling on his face.

Maxson eyes the two officers present. It's very obvious one of them is very eager to assist, and the other one would rather be scrubbing toilets. Danse is looking anywhere but at the prisoner. Right now he seems to take great interest in the sleeve of Rhys' uniform jacket. Maxson can tell he's shaking but trying hard to pretend he's not. Rhys on the other hand wears indifference like a mask that threatens to break and reveal a joyful grin.

One too eager and one too compassionate. Some experience would do them both good.

Choosing from a selection of mallets, Maxson takes out a heavy wooden one.  "This is war, and war takes prisoners. Don't look so shocked, Danse."

The man is lying dead still where he fell, breathing heavily. Maxson makes a circle around him, eyeing the body. He settles on the left hand, which is the closest limb to where Danse is standing. Conveniently displayed. It's swollen with two broken fingers, and the colour tells of circulation problems. Maxson puts a foot on the wrist to hold the hand in place.

Danse keeps facing forward but he's not really looking at anything. At least he manages not to flinch when Maxson lifts the mallet and smashes it down over the agent's fingers.

There's a hiss and an attempt at a scream, and then the prisoner goes all quiet and still.

"You see, they faint easily at this stage. Another reason to make sure they are well-fed. Rhys, give him a stimpak."

"Yes SIR!"

Rhys hops to it, injecting a stim into the damaged hand.

The agent's body trembles as the chem rushes through his blood stream. Then there's an unexpected sigh when air exits his lungs.

Nothing else happens. There is no reaction from the tissues. "Sir.." Rhys says. "You might want to use another stim. I think that one was faulty."

Maxson reaches for his stash, but Danse interrupts, having become alive again. "He is too pale, Sir. Something's not right. Here, help me turn him over."

It is clear from the look of the body that the stimpak hasn't done anything. The man's face is slack, wounds bleeding. He checks for the tell-tale bounce at the man's jugular, then at his wrist. There is no pulse.

"What the hell?" Rhys says. "Did he just…?" He looks like a dog that had a juicy bone snatched from its jaws.

Danse shakes his head. "He's dead, Sir. Must've been his heart. Too much for the body to heal over a prolonged time."

Maxson releases a breath he doesn't know he's been holding. He's annoyed, and angry, but also relieved.

"Knight. Get some assistants in here to clean up the mess. Paladin, bring this to Dr Cade -" He throws the empty stim package to Danse. " - talk to Cade about the quality of our stims. Ask him to check our supply." He gestures towards the body on the floor: "And throw that in the garbage disposal."


	5. Chapter 5

Fall has arrived early this year, and with it the chilly mornings. There is a raw wind coming from the river; it lifts a bunch of sodden orange leaves across the dirt path. They flap around, looking for all the world like a miniature Brotherhood army with their brightly coloured flags smattering. Danse studies them morosely as he trudges up the long slope to the cabin. They are a sore reminder he’s pretty much done with armies and flags and any sort of military life.

Closing the creaking door, he shivers as stale air hits his chilled skin. The old axe he found under the porch goes behind a barrel, safely hidden until the next time he needs it. Under the roof outside, just next to the sun-bleached skeleton of the cabin's previous owner, there's now a satisfyingly large stack of freshly chopped logs.

Being here in the woods dressed as a civilian feels very strange. It's like he has left his old body and entered another plane of existence. The threadbare work pants and checked shirt he stole from Storage have an unfamiliar fit - too tight in some places and too loose in others.

It's not acceptable. Reason is slow to catch up; he still finds it most logical that when he wakes up tomorrow, it will be in his familiar bunk bed, trusty power armour waiting close by and everything back to normal.

Though wishful thinking has never got him anywhere. The truth is in the backpack crammed full of stolen goods from Storage and the empty cell on board the _Prydwen_. His fellow soldiers, his Brotherhood family, are now his enemies. He won't see them again unless at the other end of a barrel.

And whose fault is it, really? He is angry at Maxson and his methods that put him in this situation in the first place. Angry at himself for not giving the order to kill the agent at the bridge. Angry at Rhys for being Rhys.

But the instrumental part in messing up his life truly and irrevocably, that part he had played himself. And for what?

For who?

He dips his head into the main room.

The man in the plank bed is still under from the doctored stimpak Danse had obtained from Cade ( _'special mission, urgent, Maxson's orders'_ ). It had been a gamble but it'd worked like a charm, slowing his pulse down to almost nothing and draining the blood from limbs and face. A very dead-looking agent had then _not_ been carried to the trash drop, but instead taken to Danse's room to wait for nightfall and the perfect time to exit the _Prydwen_.

Now, here, he could be mistaken for only half-dead, lying on his back with his crushed leg held firmly in a sling fastened to the ceiling. Fingers clenching and unclenching the stained rags that makes up the bedding, he's swept in uneasy fever-dreams, switching from dead-quiet sleep to whines and garbled ramblings. Names, dialects and languages come out in a confusing jumble of murmurs. " _Facility X"_ and " _Agamemnon"_ and somebody who was burning; a farm somewhere, a Geiger counter.

It's eerie to share the cabin with ghostly memories of people and far-off events Danse can only guess what they are. Hopefully the fever will break soon. He has to stick around until it does and the broken leg has healed. When he had made the decision to save the agent instead of performing a mercy kill, it also meant that dumping the injured man in the Wasteland was out of the question. With a bum leg he wouldn't last more than a day.

Besides, it's not like Danse has somewhere else to be.

There is a loud groan breaking the stale silence. Danse frowns as a bandaged hand moves restlessly over the bed. Hopefully this is not the beginning of another bad fit. Like the really bad one.

The really bad one had occurred yesterday, when Danse was on his way back from scouting out fresh water springs. He heard the sound before he got a visual on the cabin. The agent was screaming his lungs out with rage when Danse had barged through the door, guns drawn and ready.

Held in the clutches of fever, the man was shaking and screaming unintelligible words into the mattress. The leather straps Danse had tied him down with (firm enough to hold the agent still, loose enough so he could undo them if he woke up) were still in place, but his leg had moved in the make-shift sling and was bleeding all over the bed. He'd been holding an empty Med-x in a death-grip, wielding it like it was a weapon.

Danse had cursed at the sight of the red sheet. To prevent the man from further injuring himself, he had held the guy down as gently as he could while trying to get his arms and hands under control.

The agent had apparently taken that as a cue to put the Med-X to his own temple as if to shoot himself. "Oh god, oh god no!!".

Danse swore. The man was stronger than he had any right to be, being injured and weak and only possessing about half of Danse’s bulk. Eventually succeeding in securing one flailing hand while holding on to the other, Danse got him to drop the Med before he took out one of his own eyes.

”Stop it, Abe! You’re safe now!” he boomed in the man’s ear. ”Listen to me! Abe Moley! Agent DEACON!”

The code name had an instant effect. The rage drained right out and the death-grip he had on Danse's arm loosened. Danger averted, all clear.

-

So you are the infamous 'Deacon’ after all, Danse thinks. The man has calmed again, his breathing slow and even. He doesn't seem to be heading into another fit. Still, better not wander too far away from the cabin. It would be preferable to counter any attacks early on, with calm words and measured actions.

Yesterday, after pushing another Med-x into the agent's leg, he had remained at his side for an illogical amount of time. Danse blushes as he recalls how he had awkwardly stroked his short red hair. The man had gradually calmed down, quietly sobbing and mumbling nonsense words like 'Bababa' and 'Arara' until sleep had claimed him.

He tries to not acknowledge the sentiment of goodwill he had felt. It had been a distraction, nothing more. He might have spared this brave man's life, but he mustn't forget he is really gutter trash: a flea-bitten sewer dweller that wouldn't think twice about blowing the _Prydwen_ from the sky if it meant saving only one machine. He recalls the jokes about the Railroad he's heard in canteens and on patrols. People who sacrifice their lives for toasters, they are almost as bad as the toasters themselves.

—

 

Another groan, more lucid than the others. The man's forehead is hot, too hot, but his reflexes are fine judging by how quickly Danse's hand is struck away. He is waking up.

”Oh, fuck me. Oh, _hell_.” A hand moves down his left side, no doubt looking for a weapon that isn't there. Then the agent tries to get his legs under him to get up, but fails. The straps around his torso and hips are holding firm and preventing the damaged leg from escaping the sling. It sways, and moves, but is - thank god - still giving enough support.

"Ow!" The agent raises his head from the stained rag-pillow to take in the situation. His eyes dart from his captured leg over to Danse.

”...where am I?”

”Seven miles north of Capital, close to…" Danse checks the map on his infowatch. "I believe the closest homestead is Breakheart Banks. We got here by the boat you told me about. It was right where you said it would be.”

”Huh. I see my leg made it here too. Which is good. Oh, hello.” Making a face, he runs a hand over his head. ”Hairy.”

"How are you feeling?"

"Fucking fan- _tastic_!” He flashes a weak grin as he lies like a flipped-over bug on the bed, helplessly bandaged and splintered. ”I’m just peachy, except my shades are no more. …I’m guessing you don't have a pair on you?”

”No. You don’t need sunglasses in here.”

The cabin is not exactly well-lit. Besides the modest daylight seeping in from the glum outside, the only source of light is the embers in the tiny burner. Still, the agent seems unhappy with the brightness.

”Ooh Paladin, you’ve tied me to the bed. How kinky.” He's all tense energy as he starts fiddling with the knots, fingers bandaged and clumsy.

Danse leans forward to help, and maybe to arrange the bed-rags so the agent can sit up properly, but is stopped by a hostile look.

”Hey! Watcha doing there, Brother Tin Can?"

"Um. I was just going to help you.." He blinks, again unsure of himself; that horrible sensation that seems to be brought on by this strange man's presence.

”Yeah. Don’t…be so close. I can manage.” The knots are quickly undone without any assistance. Deacon manages to hitch himself up on one elbow, but grimaces in pain and promptly collapses down on the rags. ”Oh, son of a BITCH. Bloody bastard of a… I'm still in pieces. Are there any stimpaks?” His eyes are squeezed shut like he is trying to block out Danse from the world, the skin around his eyes crinkled.

”I just gave you a Med” Danse says, ”but you probably need a couple more. I brought about 50 so we won’t run out.”

”You've been giving me Meds? Don’t do that! No! Damn!”

The man does seem to be rather unappreciative of being given a somewhat clean bed and a heap of painkillers, not to mention being rescued and having his life back.

"You were in pain. But if you don't want them, then that's fine. You're free to decide." Danse says. "You're free to go, do what you like. We just have to get your leg fixed. It's in bad shape; only muscles and sinews are holding your foot to your knee. The bones are smashed into fragments. So I don't dare hitting you up with stims because it would heal wrong. You could end up being dependent of a cane to walk, if you would be able to walk at all."

"Seriously? That bearded freakshow really did a number on me." The man lies dead still with one arm covering his eyes.

"I'm thinking we could get a doctor from the Railroad to help you, to set it right.”

”Yeeeeah. That’s _so_ not gonna happen.” the agent says to the ceiling.

Danse tries again. ”You need a doctor. Surely your friends haven't forgotten about you?”

”There’s no doc with the Railroad.”

”I find that hard to believe.”

”They’re a healthy bunch. Get by on sheer dumb luck and wholegrain.”

”Is there another medically trained person you know of that I can attempt to get here?”

A sigh from the bed. ”I don't know any more than what your infowatch tells you, Paladin. The nearest doc is in Covenant. I highly doubt she'd be bothered to make the trip, what with neither you or me being brainwashed Covenantites.”

Even if he is generous with himself, he can't say he saw this coming. Naively, he had counted on the man giving him instructions on how to contact the Railroad. Then they would come and pick him up, and he'd be out of Danse's hair and alive and well. Spending days out on the roads in plain sight of Vertibirds and patrols in the hope of finding a doctor, preferably one that doesn't gossip, isn't too tempting.

”Perhaps I wasn't clear enough. You could lose your leg. And a legless man is a useless man out here." He thinks of Proctor Ingram who he will never see again, and a pang of sadness flashes in his chest. She was lucky in her misfortune; with her tailored mechanical limbs she is far from useless. "You can trust me - after all, I gave up my career to get you out." He can feel his jaw tensing. The anger comes back, taunting him with the insight that the man might die and he wouldn't have saved a life after all.

"I'm clearly not with the Brotherhood any longer. Still, you would rather loose your leg than give me ANY information? Not even to find a doctor? What’s wrong with you?”

The agent turns his head to the wall. The words, when they come, are spoken so quietly Danse thinks he has imagined them.

"Now, that, is a good question.”


	6. Chapter 6

Deacon doesn’t sleep much. He’s lain in worse beds, but in his dreams he’s in the cell with Maxson or in even more horrible places, and if he can remain awake, he’s still in control. The pain helps the cause of not sleeping. It sizzles and burns, forming intricate patterns through his body whenever he moves or, oh yeah, breathes.

The big guy is snoozing on the floor, his sleeping bag a mere corpse-length away. He's too close, and too loud. Danse turns out to be quite the snorer, a dangerous trait to have in the Wasteland. It could get you killed at Inns or hotels if people took offence, and in the wild it was guaranteed to attract a three hungry Deathclaws per second.

Deacon focuses on the soft snores, trying to block out the stash of Med-X that sits next to the bed. It would be easy to take one, or two, or six, and enter into the pain-free realm of chem use. He knows the place well. Addiction is ripping at his brain with its sharp claws, stirred back into life by the helpful Paladin and his attempts to play nurse.

The night is long. The meds are plentiful. He recites poems and verses, mouths them without sound while ignoring his body's craving for a ticket to Off-My-Head-land, far away from pain and imprisonment.

Because the reality is he’s just changed one cell for another.

It's unusually imaginative for the Brotherhood, he has to give them that. Tapping into his cowardly desperation for finding an Out. Placing somebody in the cell for a few hours with orders to treat him like a human. Letting him talk his ass off trying to convince Danse to help him. And then, hey presto, he was free!

Now the Brothers must be positioned at some lookout nearby, waiting for him to give Danse the slip and make his way back to HQ; to where they would easily follow his bum-leg-trail. And it would be Mercer, Bolthole, Switchboard all over again.

He studies the sleeping meat-mountain of a man. The Paladin is a real find, seemingly compassionate, naive, giving the only bed in the cabin to his guest and opting to sleep on the floor. He's such a good actor only Deacon’s experience and habitually raging paranoia prevents him from thinking he is genuine. But Danse is a _PWAP_ \- a Paladin With A Plan.

Morning is coming and yet he hasn't slept. In the semi-darkness, the sling holding his leg is almost black with blood. It's lined with something soft but it still itches. Everything itches. It's a good thing humans stop noticing a particular smell after awhile, because he must stink something awful.

There is a noise.

He perks his ears. Outside, in the distance, a female is talking. Either the wind is changing direction, or she is moving towards the cabin. He listens. There are at least two people, one female and one male. Humans. Brotherhood? But why would they blow their cover at this stage?

"Danse!" he hisses, sounding more like a broken coffee pot than a stealthy spy. The PWAP on the floor continues to breathe calmly, a solid mass without a care in the world. Another snore escapes him. Deacon stares daggers. Out in the field, without their tins and fancy ships, the Brotherhooders have once again proven to be completely useless.

"Daaaanse!"

A grunt is the only response. Deacon grabs a Med and sends it hurling towards the sleeping man.

"Hrgl….oof! Whaa….?"

He can hear them clearly now. It's a group of at least four, their boots breaking brittle twigs in the undergrowth. They are definitely moving towards the cabin, talking as if they were in a town, apparently not caring if the Wasteland listens.

To his credit, when Danse finally wakes, he's quick to his feet and at the window. Judging from his confused expression and widening eyes he didn't expect his pals to show up at this stage. So maybe they are not his pals then.

"How many?" Deacon whispers, wishing he had a rifle and his clothes and two good legs and his sunglasses. Or at least that he would be able to get out of the fucking bed.

"Four." Danse mumbles, thick eyebrows drawn together. He's still fully dressed but the skin on his neck is prickled with goosebumps. "Raiders. They're heading this way. Here."

To Deacon's surprise, a snubnosed .44 pistol comes sailing through the air. He catches it with his good hand, relishes the weight of a full chamber. Well, isn't this an interesting development. The Brotherhood Paladin just armed the Railroad agent.

 

 

The voices creep closer. Danse has a visual on all four raiders as they come walking up the slope, carrying a bundle between them. His mind is buzzing with fire angles, reloading delays and vantage points. Are there only four - are more coming?

The time for thinking is up when one of the Raiders says "…hey, who put that there?" and gestures towards the fresh stack of firewood. Danse squeezes the trigger. It's a decent head shot, sending the top part of the man's skull flying.

The other three drop whatever they're carrying and scramble in different directions. Danse fires again and one more goes down, grabbing at her gushing throat.

He's just realizing he lost track of the other two when the cabin door is yanked open. A nozzle gleams in the corner of his eye. Danse has his gun almost at the right angle to fire a kill shot. Almost. Time slows down. In a fraction of a second he gets both hot and cold when realization hits: he is out of time.

The raider wears a scornful grin as he begins to squeeze the trigger. Then the side of his head explodes, showering Danse and the wall with gobbets of blood and brain.

"The last one!" Deacons shouts somewhere behind him. Danse quickly drops to the floor, cursing under his breath. He hasn't got the situation under control. Without power armour the stakes are so much higher with every move, every decision. Gusts of cool air stream through the open door, chilling his sweaty face. Were there only four? Maybe there were five? He peeks around the door frame.

All is still and quiet. Yellow morning light drizzles through a light fog, painting pastels in the dry grass.

"I think she ran away." Deacon says. "But you better go check."

 

 

As Danse stands in the doorway and surveys their surroundings, Deacon is thinking about opportunities. The pistol is a perfect fit in his hand, its handle well-worn and smooth. He can't be sure he wasn't saying stuff during his fever attack. Just one slipped code name could be fatal. This had been proven time and time again. One slipped name, and one person to hear it was all it took. Mercer, Bolthole, Switchboard.

So he should put a bullet in Danse's head. To make sure that if he hasn't already done so, he won't be passing anything on.

He uncocks the .44 and puts it down on the bed. Shooting Danse is a crap plan for two reasons. One - his leg is halfway to falling off, and he needs someone around that has stakes in his continued well-being.

Two, the main reason - the situation doesn't quite add up.

Why was he given a weapon? Only a supremely confident man would arm an enemy in this situation. Or a very trusting one. Or a moron.

A case in point for the latter would be the heavy footfalls around the cabin; Danse makes as much noise without his power armour as he would in it. It sounds like a blind Brahmin bull clearing a thicket.

Deacon thoughtfully scratches a dried patch of something on his arm. And then it's the Raider attack - would the Brotherhood really endanger their man by letting Raiders enter the cabin?

"It appears the enemy is no longer present." Danse comes striding in with a bundle of what looks like Raider loot effortlessly slung over his broad back, his military-ness overriding the civilian clothes and making him look like he's reporting battle statistics.

"You must've scared her off. Maybe she thought you had a spare robo-outfit in your back pocket."

Danse snorts. “I’m not reliant on power armour.”

“You never enter a fight without it."

The Paladin doesn't dignify that with a response. He just stands a little straighter as he makes himself busy reloading his .45. If the guy would get any stiffer he'd break in half. Being so genuinely awkward yet controlled - it takes a natural.

Putting his paranoia on pause, Deacon checks in on his instinct.

Suddenly he remembers a man in Rivet City, a junk seller. He never caught his name, but he had been the same kind of scruffily handsome; thickly eyebrowed and small-chinned. If one were to put it politely, that dude had not been undercover material.

"Danse. You lived in Rivet City?"

The Paladin slowly nods, suspicious. "Affirmative."

He looks like he wants to ask why Deacon wants to know, but that would mean engaging in conversation with Railroad trash and his orders probably didn't specify he had to stoop to that level.

Going through his extensive catalogue of faces and places, he finds another match. An evening at The Third Rail, when he had been masquerading as a priest and got himself into an impromptu confession with a drunken Brotherhood soldier. She had slurred forth stories about their most recently appointed Paladin, how he was handsome but socially inept and impossibly stiff, and how much she wanted to jump on his stiffness and ride it hard, despite people calling him Paladin Dense behind his back.

It's possible Danse is an unwitting and expendable pawn in Maxson's grand plan. It's even possible there is no plan at all. Deacon shifts in the bed. All that has to wait though, because right now there is one pressing issue that needs to be addressed. Quickly.

"I need to go." Seeing incomprehension in the other's face, he adds " _Go_ \- go. I think I already went in the bed while I was out, and I really don't want to do it again, because it's not a good look. And speaking of that, I also need to get down to the river to wash." It doesn't sit right, telling an enemy this, admitting that yes, he is helpless and yes, he pissed himself. Maybe there's some pride left in him after all.

"Naturally. Yes, of course. I apologize." Danse scrambles into action, all poised and willing to assist, a blush spreading over his face and neck. "I brought soap from the ship."

He makes as if to unhook the sling holding Deacon's crushed leg. "This is going to hurt. Are you sure you don't want a Med?"

Deacon considers his options. "You know what. A couple of stims will do the trick. Hit me."

"But - "

"Yes, you have informed me about the consequences: cripple, amputation, yadda yadda, thanks. The stims gonna fix it now and then I'll have it re-broken and artfully arranged when I get to a doctor. But for now, I just need something leggish to walk on and not be in pain. If that means I'm gonna limp down to the river, so be it."


	7. Chapter 7

After nine stimpaks and a lot of pulling and pressing, it's clear that the leg still isn't up for limping anywhere. Danse groans as strong fingers dig into his triceps. The agent is holding on to his arm as he wobbles, unsteady, newly risen from the bed.

The leg is not a pretty sight. When the stimpak-ed tissues started to come together, there had been wild improvisation from the forming network of cells. Danse had tried to shape it as it healed, while Deacon bit down on a stick to keep from screaming. It had been stressful and messy and it hadn't done much good in the end. Bone shards had latched on to the nearest other shard, no matter how far away it had been, or how close, or at what angle.

The finished product is about three inches shorter than the other leg, with a knobbly growth jutting out mid-shin. The foot had twisted outwards as the leg healed, ending up at a funny angle that doesn't look suitable to put any weight on.

The man on his arm is trying though, trying really hard. Danse glances down at the leg. From this angle it looks even worse. At least the whole mess is covered with healthy skin.

"Actually, this is nothing." Deacon says between his teeth. "When I was a Lieutenant in the NCR I took a hit in the groin and got half my junk blown off. It was total carnage. I lost parts. One of my nuts is actually a real nut."

"Really? The NCR?" Danse puts an arm around the agent's waist to give him better support, and is surprised to find he isn't pushed away.

"Yeah. I was gonna install a small radio but couldn't figure out how I'd change the station."

While Danse ponders this new and unexpected information, the agent takes a brave step forward. It seems to be working at first, but then the strained hip gives in to the unusual angle of the foot and he falters.

Danse easily holds him upright. It would be much quicker if he just picked Deacon up and carried him bridal-style down to the river, but he's sure the agent would never allow it, so he doesn't bother making the suggestion.

"Okay, so this is not working as well as I thought." Deacon mutters.

"We're almost at the door. Come on."

Danse half-lifts and half-drags him out on the porch. The agent is quiet, his mouth a thin discontent line, but he lets himself be handled without protest.

It's turning into a fine autumn day. Bright sunlight floods the landscape and sparkles off the mottled surface of the river. The crisp light outlines everything in fine detail; each stone on the shore sparkles like a gem. It's a good day for flying, Danse thinks. They might be overflown at any time. Better make it down quick, while all is quiet. He attempts to move the agent off the porch.

"Waaait. Damnit, it's not working."

Deacon lets go of his arm, balancing on one leg. He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. "Oh god, what a bright, horrible day. The sun and me, we're not the bestest of pals. I burn easily."

"The visibility is indeed good." Danse says in what he hopes is an encouraging tone. "You could do with a bit of sun, as pale as you are."

Standing next to each other like this, he notes that they are almost the same height. Danse straightens to gain a few more millimetres on the agent. He's not short, not by any means, but people are usually surprised that he's not taller. It's the same for all armoured personnel. Out of power armour he always feels like he's shrunk.

If they ever were to talk normally, in a normal situation, they'd be perfectly face to face. His palms go clammy at the thought of meeting that piercing gaze head-on. Thankfully that is unlikely to happen. Deacon's eyes are slitted with displeasure, looking anywhere but at him.

"Okay, I'm gonna use my favorite leg and hop to that bush over there. Crossing fingers I won't have an accident on the way."

"Um." Danse says. "Let's hope not."

He takes the moment to survey their surroundings again: identifying the weak spots and noting they are the same as the other times he's surveyed the surroundings.

When he's done, Deacon is also done. He's off towards the river, hopping on one leg. Danse remembers the soap, and probably the agent will want clothes, and something to dry himself off with. He dives back into the cabin for his backpack.

When he gets down to the water, Deacon is already in up to his knees. He is quietly scrubbing off blood and grime with a handful of dried grass, more obviously naked now when most of the filth has been taken by the water. Dropping the stuff on the bank, Danse turns away to poignantly study some rocks. They could make an adequate look-out point.

"Dancer? Hello?"

He doesn't turn. "Yes?"

"While I appreciate the gesture, there's nothing here that you haven't seen before. Can I have the soap please?"

It can't be helped; he has to take a quick gander to toss the soap. As he makes the throw he notices in passing how the sunlight falls on Deacon's body, all wiry muscles and ribs and scars.

"Wow, the rads here really burn off dirt. Must be close to +10. By the way, a tip for you: move the Raider stiffs, and the stacked firewood. Having big advert boards announcing your presence here - not good mojo. It'll get you killed."

Danse nods, trying hard to ignore Deacon's wet nakedness and the corresponding tingle in his groin. It's been a very long time. Life is decent enough without all that, less hurtful, simpler, more effective. Keeping himself busy with military, he has ignored the men and women trying to catch his eye. There has always been something missing.

"You're the strong, silent type, huh? I respect that. I'm actually the strong, silent type myself."

"Right."

"Man, the water is cold! I just want to say, for the record, that there is major shrinkage occurring right now. So - not representative. Makes one long for Vault 81 and their hot showers. There should be more showers."

Danse sits down on the rocks to keep a look-out while Deacon splashes around. People are no good anyway, so there is no use trying. They abandon you. His parents must have left him at an early stage, because no matter how hard he tries to remember his childhood, nothing comes to mind. His street friends left him. Cutler…well he left too. Danse is still having flashbacks, even after all these years.

But people didn't leave the Brotherhood, didn't leave the cause, unless they got killed in action. They were united through their military code, a satisfyingly formal comradeship installed by default. It had suited him perfectly. But now…he is on unsafe ground again.

It's not a good feeling. Distracted by his dark mood, he lets his eyes wander. The sight of Deacon scrubbing out his belly button with a folded leaf is oddly soothing. Then he catches a glimpse of red between his legs and the tingling sensation comes back in force.

Something is off though. He dares to take a proper look.

With the all the dirt gone, it's obvious there is almost no hair where there should at least be some. Most of it has been removed, and whoever did it didn't do a very neat job. Danse swallows. The damage from the hot razors, that was expected, the smouldering metal having burned off everything in its way. But this… What had Maxson been up to?

"Blowtorch." Deacon's voice calls him back to reality, his tone light and breezy. "Your freak-boss thought I would look nicer without, so he burned most of it off. Plus some skin too. I agree, nothing uglier than ginger hair."

"Oh." He wonders if he should apologize for Maxson. There is nothing about situations like this in the BoS Code of Conduct. The scars, the crushed leg, the blunt trauma - stuff you could expect from the torture manual. But this…this is disturbing in a whole other way. Perverse. He shudders as he ponders what other things straight-shooting, heroic Maxson could have been up to.

Deacon scrubs his scalp and beard with soap, then dips his whole head under water. When he comes up again he's as clean as Danse has ever seen him. Freed of the dirt, and illuminated by the sun, his hair is a uniform deep red.

After rinsing his head one more time, the agent hops ashore and goes straight for the Rad-Aways. A wise choice; after the thorough washing he must be positively glowing.

"You have a razor in that bag? Nah, you don't use one, do you? You just rub your face against a rock every other day to get that manly scruff, right?"

"Negative. I didn't bring one."

It's true; his toiletry bag lies forgotten on the ship. Not that it is needed here; no-one will be looking at him if he can help it.

Deacon clearly finds something amusing, judging from how he's stifling a smile. Danse decides to ignore it.

"There are clothes in the bag. The raiders had an almost whole shirt among their loot. The pants are from the Prydwen."

"Great! Perfect." The clothes are on in a few seconds. Deacon really dresses incredibly fast, even with his handicap. "See, I need to get all this hair off my head. And this too." He pulls at his short beard.

Danse quenches an illogical desire to protest - the fact that he finds it rather appealing is of no consequence to the situation at hand. Also, he can see why it needs to go. Having hair like that would make it hard to walk unnoticed through the 'wealth.

Deacon shades his eyes from the sun; studies him curiously. "Maybe you could help? Not too far from here, over at the Slog - you know the place? - a caravan should have stopped to re-stock. The leader's name is Maude. I could put a disguise on you and you could go get me a razor?"

"Maybe. If it is an adequate disguise."

"Great! First thing first: a razor, that's really important. Then I need a pair of sunglasses - also muy important. Like, muy. And unless you brought a pair from the Bro ship, which you probably didn't: sneakers. Cigarettes I also need… and a greaser wig! If they have it."

"A greaser wig?"

"What can I say, it's all the rage this fall. Tell Maude it's for Mr John Doe and he'll pay next time. Unless you want to pay yourself, because that'd be great. Seriously though, it would. I'm skint."

So the agent's real name is John. Danse enjoys the little slip-up, finally getting something real to hang on to. He does look like a John.

"Razor, shades, sneakers, cigarettes, wig. Got it." He wonders what they will use for his disguise. There ain't a lot they can do with three dead raiders and some spare shirts.

\--

"So, I peed in this bucket." Deacon says. "No wait, hear me out! I'm gonna mix it with 'lurk droppings and let it rest for two hours. Ammoniac - in a pinch it's nature's own peroxide. I swear, you put this on and sit in the sun and it'll turn that thick luscious hair of yours into a sand-blonde mane!"

\--

It doesn't turn Danse's hair into a sand-blonde mane.

After the Paladin had rinsed his hair a lot, and talked in a loud voice, Deacon had revealed his Plan B: an old hat he'd found among the raider's loot. With Danse's dark hair covered, and his eyebrows slightly thinner (attempts had been made to pull out some hairs to give him a less Dansey look. The man had eyebrows enough for a whole squadron), the half-decayed coat of the skeletal cabin owner had completed the outfit. Danse had noted in a moment of inspiration that no-one in their right mind would approach him looking like that. Which was a good thing.

\--

Dusk has fallen. Danse must be well on his way to Maude and her caravan, using the setting darkness as cover. Deacon takes a cautious looks around, then hops out of the cabin. Night is gradually filling out the harsh shadows of the day and making everything more equal, letting him be less visible, making it easier to breathe.

He makes his way over to some rocks and to a promising hollow he spotted earlier.

It's nice in the crevice, cool and moist. He squeezes in as far as he can, the pistol between him and the opening. It's like balm for his mind, placing himself where no-one can see him and no-one knows where he is. Finally alone - no Brotherhoods, no Maxson, and no Danse. Strange to imagine it's only been, what, eight or nine days since the events at the bridge. He needs to get back to the Railroad asap, time is ticking, but the damn leg is not up for it yet. God knows what his peeps have been up to while he's been gone. Is he presumed dead? Did Des call for a moment's silence while Carrington cracked open a bottle of bubbly?

And - he needs to find out what Danse's deal is.

Far in the distance, a mongrel barks. Then it's all quiet again - just the faint hum of the wind and his own breathing. Deacon readies his .44. With any luck, a pair of sunglasses will be here soon. And life will begin anew. He can't wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Danse and Deacon are almost the same height - I got the[ screenshot to prove it](http://oi66.tinypic.com/mh7n04.jpg)
> 
> There are actual hair bleach recipes from 1500's Italy that contain stale urine....eeeugh
> 
> Thank you so much for the kudos and comments so far, they are the life-blood of inspiration! <3


	8. The irony game

"So you're saying it's okay to kill people because you believe them to be a different race than you. There was a guy who did that in the 1940's - many millions under his belt, didn't exactly win the Citizen of the Century-award."

Danse thinks the time when John Doe/Deacon was out cold with fever might have been preferable to right now. After getting the one pair of banged up shades the caravan carried, he has perked up considerably. Now the sunglasses sit perched on his nose as he scarfs down some disgusting neon-orange mac'n'cheese mix. A black pompadour wig rises majestically from his head, making him look like one of the Atom Cats.

Maude had been nice enough - for a ghoul - when Danse finally found the caravan in the middle of night. She had nodded knowingly and packed his mouldy pockets full of beer and other food items, saying Mr Doe could pay her back whenever and she hoped he was doing well.

"I refuse that argument." Danse says, wiping soap suds off the razor. As soon as Deacon had finished with it, he'd jumped at the opportunity to shape his beard into neatness again. Scraping away his rough sideburns, he wishes Deacon - John - would just shut up and eat his breakfast. It is too early for discussions and he didn't sleep well. He had been dreaming about Cutler again and when he woke up, his pillow-rags were wet.

"Those people you refer to were humans. The Brotherhood fight for all of humanity, against the tyranny of machines."

"No you don't!" The agent gestures with his spoon-shaped stick. "You would walk over twenty settler's bodies just to get to one good piece of technology. The Brotherhood only fights for themselves. What happened, man? You used to be the good guys."

"Now listen -" Agitated, he takes too much off the left side.

"Racism at its finest! Right now I could be a synth, sitting here synthing, and you wouldn't have a clue."

"You are not a synth. There are certain signs." He might just as well shave the whole thing off and re-start the beard-scaping in a few days. Pale skin, untouched by the sun, appears in broad strokes under the razor as he lets his chin become smooth for the first time in years.

"Like what? Come on, I'm dying to hear."

"Well -" Danse says. He tries to recall Maxson's power-speeches from command deck, how the words fell. "They are more devious than humans."

"No. They are EXACTLY LIKE humans. I promise you, they are!"

"They are not. Look here, Agent Deacon - "

"Oh my god!" Deacon slaps a hand against his cheek, mouth open in shock. "How did you know my first name was 'Agent'?!"

" - John. This discussion does not lead anywhere."

"It doesn't lead anywhere because you're not listening. You should expel that giant stick lodged up your backside, it's so large it's blocking your ears.'

This has gone far enough. He wipes his clean-shaven face with a coarse rag, rubs his skin until it glows pink. "Look here, John - "

"It's Abe. Abe Moley."

Ears burning with agitation, he turns to the other man. " - technology should work for humans, not controlling humans. Synths are abominations designed by the Institute to infiltrate the Commonwealth and annihilate it. They are freaks of nature, perversions of science, and every single one of them needs to be hunted down and destroyed!"

It's dead quiet in the cabin. The agent has stopped chewing, stopped doing anything. He is staring at Danse with his mouth half-open, as if he's seen a ghost. The stick-spoon, laden with macaroni, hovers forgotten just above the bowl.

"Holy shit - you have _got_ to be fucking kidding me."

Danse sets his jaw in response. Perhaps he came on too strong. But what he said is the honest truth, no matter if the Railroader wants to hear it or not.

"Even though I have willingly left the Brotherhood, this is still my opinion. Synths have no place in this world."

"Sure, those are your opinions, yeah. Whatever." Deacon mumbles. "Rivet City huh? What a town."

Just like that, he seems to have lost the ambition to nag Danse into becoming a synth-lover. The agent is studying him from behind dark shades. Or maybe he sits with his eyes closed. It's hard to know what is going on. Danse wishes he hadn't got those ridiculous sunglasses. He wants to grab them off Deacon's nose, see for himself what the agent's blue eyes look like in this moment.

Turning away, he spots his flushed and jarringly smooth face in the hub cap he's been using as a mirror. He's only been this clean-shaven once before, when he first arrived in Rivet City.

Wait a minute. "Why did you just mention Rivet City?"

"Nothing. Just a town. Where you lived. Anyway, you're wrong, man. Totally. Boo Brotherhood. What a bunch of fascists." Getting back to the task of eating, Deacon quickly wolfs down the last of the orange-coloured gunk.

"We are not fascists. I mean, they are not fascists. Not in general." He grows quiet, thinking about Rhys' expression on that last day, in the cell.

"A few days on the _Pwylyd_ -fucking- _ydlwen_ and I was ready to die." Deacon says, grabbing a bottle of beer. "Not so much the torture as the smell of Maxson's unwashed beard. I can't imagine how it must be for you guys."

"Ha- …hrm." Danse suppresses a chuckle. It would be wrong to find anything the Railroader says funny. Especially at Maxson's expense.

The mood in the small room has gone from agitated to…something, and he can't put his finger on what that something is. Deacon - John - drinks his beer in silence while seemingly looking at the floor, his brow crinkled.

Shifting on the old rotting stool he's sitting on, Danse considers his next option. It's like he's intruding on Deacon's personal space that somehow just grew to encompass the whole shack. "Anyway. I'm gonna step out for a bit. Get some air."

After an absent-minded nod from the agent, he picks up a bottle and a rifle and pulls on the moldy old coat.

-

If he doesn't think about the grander scheme of things, it's quite nice to be alive. The morning is warm and misty and his beer is perfectly chilled from the night's cold. He sips it while chewing on a Brotherhood field ration; it might look like already masticated cardboard, but it's nutritious and full of good calories; it makes your body strong and your mind alert. He definitely prefers this over the fat/preservatives/food coloring-combo that Deacon just ate a whole box of.

Watching a group of black crows settle on the cracked ground in from of the cabin, he ponders the outdoor life. Living in the woods as a huntsman isn't too unappealing. He could make an income trading 'lurk meat and YaGau furs, see a doctor for a face change and only visit populated places when he absolutely has to. It would be a life in solitude, but then again he's been lonely most of his life.

Or he could return to Rivet City and re-start the junk business. Or…he doesn't know what to do. What he wants the most, well that is easy enough. His old rank, his armor, a purpose.

A bang tears through the misty air. Danse flinches, almost knocking over his beer. Two crows lie dead on the ground, feathers falling like dark snowflakes while the rest of the flock wings it to the nearest tree cluster.

A reflection from the door: a pistol pipe. So it's not only Haylen who likes to practice on birds. He smiles in spite of himself. And a good shot it was too; two kills with one bullet.

"Damn it, why are you wasting ammo on crows for?"

Deacon's face comes into view; all dark glasses and rooster-like hair. "Those raven bastards are products of the Institute, in case you didn't know. I just showed them that this here - not a friendly place. Any bird straying from the flock and comes rambling over here again; now that would be a tell. That's a bird you need to shoot."

"What?"

"It's the honest truth. Some of the birds, they're Watchers. Ever wondered how the Institute always seems to know where the Brotherhood's troops are? How they can be up-to-date with your battle plans? Well, the little birdie-birds let them know via their transmitters."

"Ehm. This would be news to be."

"There's a lot that would be news to you, Danse." the agent says. He disappears from the door into the darkness.

It's been weighing on his mind; the fact that Deacon isn't showing more signs of trauma from the treatment Maxson doled upon him. Danse has seen war-torn men and women become shivering wrecks, jumping at sounds no louder than whispers. Not being able to sleep. Maybe Deacon has PTSD, a diagnosis Dr Cade had described to Danse in fine detail when the good doctor had tried to get him off field duty. The paranoia he just displayed could be an indication of other budding mental problems.

He takes a sip of beer, savours the aroma of it as he thoughtfully lets it roll around his tongue. Since Deacon's fever broke, he hasn't seen him sleep. The man was guarding the door when Danse came back at 4 AM this morning. The night before he'd been awake when Danse bedded down, and then alert and ready for the raiders at the crack of dawn. In the Wasteland, staying awake is a good tactic for a while. 24 hrs, at most. In the long term it's less effective. He knows all about losing sleep and what it can do to a man.

Leaning forward to place the empty beer bottle on the ground, he notices there is something square and lumpy in his coat. In a corner of the large, holed pocket there's a small book hiding. Maude had slipped it to him just before he took leave: another gift for Mr Doe, one he's forgotten to hand over.

The cover is made with red-stained leather, most of it still intact. He turns it around in his hands. Good tooling, a quality item. But it's essentially worthless, like all the other old books in the libraries. Some people collect them, but small print is not his thing. He can read - it's a requirement for joining the Brotherhood and he wouldn't have come far in the junk seller business without the knowledge. Outside of business though, that skill has mostly been applied to Grognak comics (sparingly) and T-60-manuals (eagerly).

Though this, well, it was given to Deacon so this might be not just any boring book. Perhaps this is a way for the Railroad to communicate with each other. Excited, he flicks through it, scanning the pages in the hope of finding anything that could give him more clues about who the redhead really is.

The lines are short and ordered in groups of three. Must be some kind of poem then. He reads the first short verse.

 _When half way through the journey of my life_  
_I found that I was in a gloomy wood,_  
_because the path which led right was lost._

All pages are much the same. Nothing is underlined. There are no subversive instructions or cryptic codes. Disappointed, he closes it. There's nothing of value between the red leather-bound covers.

"Where did you get that? From Maude?" The agent has materialized outside the shack, leaning on the wall for support. Danse looks up, one eyebrow raised. _Sneaky._ Of course Deacon has been watching him.

"I did indeed. She said she thought you'd like it."

"Give it here then."

He decides to take a gamble. "You have to move your behind and come and get it. Hop, hop."

It pays off; the reward is an amused intake of breath, a mock-outraged exclamation. "Paladin Danse!"

"Ex-Paladin, unfortunately."

Deacon comes hopping in great one-legged strides, crippled leg slightly bent and held flush to the side of the working one. "I must buy Maude a drink later. The lady is a saint. Oooh, is that what I think it is?"

Danse shrugs. "The title is _The Divine Comedy_...by 'Dante'. No last name apparently".

Judging from the happy grin on Deacon's face, it seems to be what he thought it was. Snatching the book from Danse's hand, he makes a not very elegant u-turn and hops right back inside without slowing down. It's a scene much like a hungry Deathclaw having caught a brahmin. The book will surely be devoured in no time.

Shaking his head, Danse goes to pick up a satchel and a rifle from under the roof. He needs something to do and the 'lurk nests he saw on his way back this morning looked ready to be culled. And maybe he can bag a steak if he's lucky.

-

Carrying not one but two juicy 'lurk steaks, he feels rather accomplished as he makes his way back towards the cabin. His infowatch says it's 1.20 PM. Since he set out he's managed to reduce four nests to broken shards and dead 'lurk babies, kill two adults, and bludgeon a group of feral dogs as an extra bonus. This woodsman life might be something after all.

All the dead trees look much the same, but his own trail is easy to find, long stretches of it visible now when the mist has cleared, and he has no problem re-tracing his steps. Tracking is not hard, at least not in this grassy woodland.

Pushing the cabin door open with his foot, he briefly wonders if Deacon has finally gone to sleep or if he's still pouring over the book.

The stark daylight shatters the murky gloom and falls on Scribe Delecroix' face. Her brown eyes expressionless, she holds her gun steady; one meter between them and a clear line of fire to his heart.

Danse freezes, blood draining from his head. Suddenly there is not enough air to breathe.

Behind Delecroix: Knight Bota in his new X-01 armor. The faint hum of its central power hub fills the space.

His voice is deep, familiar. As always, he carefully articulates his words. "Danse. We have been waiting for you."


	9. Death and violence

Before all hell breaks loose, there is time to quietly analyse the situation. With the rock crevice comfortably within reach and the .44 resting easy on his knee, Deacon can almost pretend it's just another day at the lookout post, staring holes into the Vault 111 entrance.

But this is not the time to put his feet up, pick his nose and slowly sip clean water from a semi-clean carton. The Paladin has just entered the cabin in his innocent, unaware way. Either the two Brotherhooders have arrived to hold a short meeting about their failed plan - how the Railroad agent hasn't led them to HQ - or this is perhaps, maybe, more of a collect-the-traitor-mission.

The Vetribird had circled overhead a couple of times before landing, no doubt drawn in by the reflections cast by the empty beer bottle Danse had left outside. Another stupid mistake from someone not used to having to hide, but then again maybe it wasn't.

Deacon pushes another stim into the worn cuff of his socks, adjusts his shoe laces so that they are exactly the right length and tightness. Pockets filled with extra ammo - check. Wig on the right way - check. Fly zipped - check. Dez would be proud.

Prepped and ready, he waits. What are they doing in there, the Brotherhood soldiers and Danse the synth?

Because that's what he is, if Deacon's photographic memory and tendency to connect really important dots are anything to go by. Back at the Railroad HQ in Rivet City, close to Dr Amari's place, he had fleetingly seen a board with pictures of the most recent batch of liberated synths, arranged according to final destination and role. Under the header 'Rivet C.', Danse's clean-shaven mug had uncertainly smiled down at him. Ready to become anyone.

A new, free life, with a multitude of possibilities. And look where that freedom had taken him.

\--

"I'm sorry, Sir - I mean, what the hell were you thinking?" Delecroix says, her face alive again. She's probably relieved he didn't fight back, so she didn't have to fire a kill shot. "If you planned on going insane, maybe you should have considered -"

"That is quite enough." Bota booms. He gestures to the door. "Let's not delay."

"Yessir, sorry Sir."

As Danse moves towards the exit, he takes a quick look around, sending a prayer of thanks for the agent's absence. There is no trace of John Doe ever having been here. The bed is messy enough but his own sleeping bag is nowhere to be seen, making it look like only one person has occupied the cabin. He's certain Bota and Delecroix didn't expect anything else, assuming he and the Railroad agent must have parted many days ago.

John is probably hiding close-by, watching and waiting for them all to leave so he can emerge from his hiding place. Maybe send smoke signals to his friends to come and get him or whatever his plans are. Danse smiles inwardly, warmth spreading in his chest. The agent will be all right. His own sacrifice hasn't been for nothing.

When Bota and his bulky armour have cleared the door, and Delecroix has frisked him for any concealed weapons, they set off in a north-eastern direction. With the Scribe in front of him and Bota close after, he is helplessly framed by his former Brothers. It's so wrong, walking like a civilian in a threadbare shirt, unarmed, feeling exposed and short next to metal-encased Bota.

"Haylen wanted to come." Delecroix says to the terrain in front of her. "She wasn't allowed, of course. You let her down, Danse. All of us. The _Railroad_." She spits the word out like a bad tarberry. "You were a model soldier….we all looked up to you. I'm curious what he said that made you lose your sense. "

"Nothing. It was the right thing to do. I am willing to accept the consequences." Danse says automatically. He hasn't entertained the idea that the Brotherhood would look for him, but of course they would. Maxson is not the type to let any wrongdoing slide.

The sun has begun its decent in the sky, colouring in the afternoon. The power armour's shadow falls over Danse and looms around his feet. He is numb; the crackle of dry grass under his soles comes from some place far away.

"Our mission is to get you back alive. The Elder wants to make an example of you." Bota says behind him. "I am personally sorry that we are in this situation. For high treason, there is only one outcome."

\--

Judging from Danse's shrunken form and his sudden lack of weapons, one could surmise this is not a happy reunion. More like a walk to the gallows. And that means - unless this is a very elaborate double-buff - that Danse is not a PWAP, but instead Deacon's very own knight in shining armor, or, well, out of armor. And not a knight. But yeah.

Technically he could just sit here and let them take Danse away. After the raider encounter they are even; no-one owns their life to the other. He can stay in his hidey-hole, then crawl out and get on with his sad existence. He has people to save, after all. Synths.

So why not save this particular synth.

It wouldn't be the ultimate thing to risk one's life for, but hey…he likes the guy. Cares for him, even. Not every day somebody busts you out like that. And then goes to pick up sunglasses for you.

The trio is moving away from his hiding place, no doubt heading to where they parked. One scrawny Scribe with a gun and one meat-filled power armor carrying the standard laser rifle. The armor is a problem. Sans protection and wielding only a .44, he is no match for a Knight. Unless... A direct hit on the armour's power source would shatter the core and force-eject its inhabitant. But he's no MacCready. There is no way he can take a shot like that from this distance. So what else?

With every possible angle, every shot, every play-out of events, he bites it in the end. The odds are shit, and really, this is not his fight. He should just sit tight and let them scurry Danse away to whatever disciplinary execution Maxson has prepped for him.

Then again, he always had a perverse love for odds worse-than-bad.

Or if it's the other way around.

He checks his shoe laces one last time, then crawls out from among the rocks.

-

The closer Danse gets to the waiting 'bird, the harder it is to follow Delecroix' diminutive form. It's like his body has forgotten how to put one foot in front of the other. Though this situation is a direct consequence of his actions, what it means to be Brotherhood, honor and oaths, and so on.. ..he still does not want to go. Not at all. It comes almost as a shock, this fierce animal-like will to live.

If he can get the Scribe's gun, twist it out of her hand...but it's no use. He'll never get free from a Knight in armor. And if he tries anything, there is a risk Delecroix would be hurt.

Steeling himself, he tries to walk with a straight back and head high. No-one else should have to suffer for his choices. He misjudged Maxson, and death is the price he will pay.

Behind him, there is a noise. One he is deeply familiar with: the characteristic hissing of a power armour opening up. He turns around in surprise, just as two shots are fired.

\---

When the mechanism yields to his fingers and the fusion core ejects, Deacon quietly whoops with joy. As the protective casing starts to retreat, he fires on the vulnerable human body hiding inside the metal. One, two bullets, into the man's spine, before the soldier has time to manually close the armour or exit the suit properly.

A flash of needle next to the man's jugular and well, damn, seems like this particular outfit is equipped with special stuff. The emergency stims are deployed and the broken flesh starts to heal right before his eyes. He fires two more times into the knight's back, just as the Scribe comes dashing around the opened armour to see what the hell is going on.

"Oh shit!"

Eyes wide with fear, she fumbles with her weapon as Deacon is very ready to blow her brains out, but there's no need to pull the trigger because here comes Danse's right fist, connecting with her cheekbone. She goes down like a sack of carrots.

Balancing on his one good leg, Deacon is no match for the blow that hits him in the side, the bang from the rifle making his ears ring. He falls on his ass, flank hurting bad but his body manages a quick roll to avoid the follow-up shot. The knight has cleared the suit and the stims seems to have done him good, judging by how effectively he uses his rifle.

Lying on his side, Deacon makes a half-hearted attempt to aim, praying to some merciful god as he fires in the soldier's general direction. A responding laser beam rips his thigh apart; more blood and white heat, both his legs now useless.

"Railroad!" the soldier shouts, sounding like a crazed behemoth jacked up on psycho. The bullet has gone right through his left biceps, but the big man doesn't seem too bothered about it, face twisted into a grimace and blood colouring his orange jumpsuit sunset-red. He takes an extra half-second to aim properly, to fire a laser beam right between Deacon's eyes.

But by then the snubnosed .44 has already released its sixth and final bullet.

\--

Danse clutches his smarting fist, takes in the scene; Delecroix is lying unconscious on the ground, her weapon close by. Bota is out of armor somehow and his rifle is spewing red. John Doe (where did he come from?) is down, bleeding, clutching his pistol with both hands and taking a shot from his supine position.

As Bota is about to fire straight into the agent's head, the .44 bullet finds its target and his comrade's lower jaw shatters into a red cloud.

The big man staggers a few steps to the side, eyes bewildered, the lower part of his face gone but he is still holding on to his rifle - is still aiming it at the agent who is now desperately scrambling to reload.

A second shot rings out and Bota stoops to his knees. A third one, and his brain is sprayed all over the dry grass.

In a daze, Danse lowers Delecroix' smoking gun. He watches as the mostly headless body of his former brother-in-arms falls forward, spilling its blood over the agent's sneakers.

\--

Deacon finally remembers to exhale and hey-ho, here comes the pain crashing in. His hands tremble as they clumsily reach for the stims in his socks, his heart racing in a way that can't be good for a man his age. Gun fights are quite stressful. A couple of seconds later the chems have finished their work and he manages to get to his feet, or foot, picking up the laser rifle as he goes.

Danse is standing like a statue, the Scribe's gun lowered, staring in disbelief at the big guy's body.

"I killed him." he says flatly.

It's like a heavy shroud is lifted when Deacon's all-encompassing paranoia finally releases its grip. No ruse can be this elaborate, can demand the death of one of their own. The ex-Paladin is genuinely genuine, guilible and good-hearted.

"Yeah, you did kill him." Deacon says, relief flooding his system. "I totally had that under control by the way, but thanks all the same."

Quickly searching the corpse for ammo, he then hops over to the unconscious Scribe and repeats the process. It's funny really. A compassionate synth taking up arms with the Brotherhood. Definitely deserving of at least the #8 spot on his Top Ten Irony Bites-list. If not #7.

"Danse, we gotta move. The girl might snap to it at any moment, and I'm guessing you want the body count to stop here."

"Yes. I…Look, I knew him. He was a good man."

It's sweet, the way the ex-Paladin's voice almost breaks, but in the Wasteland there is no time for mourning. "Let's go. Grab the bags. Now, give me your arm - I need a crutch."

\----

The cave dwelling is like nothing Danse has ever seen before. A place to go missing, better suited for a radscorpion or a molerat rather than a human. It's low-ceilinged and sparsely furnished, with only a small cooking pit, a bedroll and some utensils telling of recent habitation. The earthen floor is cold with patches of bedrock peeking through.

He wouldn't have found it even if someone had pointed it out for him, but the agent had known where it was instantly. And just in time too; as they had moved the last of the camouflaging branches, the heavens had turned black and green with radrain.

The noise of the storm is muted; it's blocked out by a moveable stick-wall, made more sturdy with tufts of grass poked into it. Danse is sitting on his sleeping bag, the raised stick bed under it creaking with every little movement. Bags in one corner and the agent in another, smoking a cigarette wantonly, like his life depended on it. It's his third since they got here. Maybe he is saving them for occasions such as this, whatever this is.

Danse wishes he smoked so he too could enjoy a cigarette. The numbness has given way to a fizzing energy that is restlessly buzzing around his body and showing him images of Bota in the grass, brown-red soil, the agent's torn clothes. He wonders what Haylen will say when she hears the news. Wonders where his own salvation came from and why.

"How could you sneak up on us like that? With one leg?"

"On all fours. Or should I say, all threes." In the faint light, the glow from the cigarette dances as John does a scuttling movement to illustrate. "A new, very un-stylish way of sneaking. Maybe I should walk only on my hands next time. No shoe laces to worry about."

He squashes the butt against the wall, then starts rummaging through one of the bags. "By the by, I've been working on a thing."

"A thing?" Danse looks on expectantly. He has no guesses as to what it could be.

"Yeah, a thing." Deacon clarifies. He pulls out a block of wood, somewhat shaped like a thick sole. "This thing. It goes under my uncooperative foot, adding a couple of inches in the right places to make me level again. When I can use it properly I'll be on my merry way back to civilization."

"Can I see?"

Turning it around, it's obvious it's expertly carved to fit exactly around a shoe. Straps of leather are attached with wooden plugs. Danse looks closer at the wider inner rim. A tiny train is making it's way across the surface in bas-relief, little clouds of steam billowing from the minute chimney.

"Wow. Impressive. It's really well done." He tries to steel himself against smiling. It wouldn't be right, too soon after recent events, even if the agent's own smile is infectious.

"Thanks. I had the time, so.. I used to make stuff all the time before." His grin fades. "I was a farmer once. I made tools... toys for my kids. It was fun."

Danse doesn't ask. "I hope you'll be able to carve more things, John. Some day."

"Appreciate it. Though my name's not John." The agent straps the piece of wood onto his foot, moving it around experimentally.

”Okay. So, once and for all, what IS your real name then?”

”Abe. What's yours? I only know you as ’Danse’.”

Danse scratches his arm, seeing for his inner eye how the matron at the orphanage had written his name over his bed in the boy's dormitory, the big letter 'R' straight over a crack in the wall. After a few years, half of it had crumbled off.

”Um, my first name is Richard.”

”Ah, Richie. Ricky. Dick. Tricky Dick. Bill? No, not Bill." 'Abe' takes a few steps with the wooden sole. "Can I call you Tricky Dick?”

”Um, no.”

”Can I call you Dingo?”

Danse frowns. ”My friends call me Dan.”

”Ok, so Dingo it is.”

Danse is beginning to regret asking the question. He tries again: ”So…your real name, please?”

”You may call me Deacon.”

”I thought you said -”

”I’m just saying you MAY call me Deacon, and I’d respond to it. Good, right? You could also call me Ishmael... nah, don't call me Ishmael, never cared for that name.”

\--

After discussing the immediate future (Danse has no plans, Deacon shall stay around until he can walk properly on his wooden extension), they mostly focus on emptying the remaining beer bottles and cooking small pieces of 'lurk steak in the fire pit. The rain is drenching the landscape outside with rads and the wind is shaking the makeshift door, but the cave is surprisingly warm and dry.

Danse watches out of the corner of his eye as the agent sheds his bloody shirt and rummages through the bag looking for another. The buzz from the killing has been replaced with a low hum surging through his veins. He wants to...he doesn't know what he wants. Deacon's skin is very light and soft-looking. Letting his gaze travel upwards to the broad swoop of his shoulders, Danse imagines what it would be like to touch him. Resting his hand over Deacon's heart and follow the ridge of the collarbone with his thumb, tracing the scooped hollow just above it, feeling the pulse there.

All things seem possible, as long as the intoxication level holds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Call me Ishmael" is the first line of 'Moby Dick', but of course Danse wouldn't get the reference. :)
> 
> Sorry this took awhile! Kudos and comments are, as usual, inspiration and love!


	10. Montagues and Capulets

An old cotton shirt has been extracted from the bottom of the bag. Its yellow pattern of little atomic cars stands out in the half-gloom. Deacon immediately puts it on, grinning happily as he buttons it up with an incredible speed.

"I can't believe the Brotherhood have stuff like this in the closet. It's like a paint factory puked all over it. Very fashion-backward."

It's slightly disappointing that the Railroader's naked torso is now hidden from view, but at least Danse is treated to a couple of model poses. He hums approvingly as Deacon puts one leg up on a rock and leans forward, looking into the distance in a manly way with one hand shading his eyes from an imaginary sun.

"Yay or nay? Yellow becomes me, does it not? God I hope so. Or we'll have to change our flag. Not to mention our letterheads and business cards."

"It's a nice shirt." Danse says. "I just grabbed what I could, really. There was no time to pick the best."

"It's how you carry your clothes anyway. The poise, the movement. The _je ne sais quoi_." Twirling around, Deacon manages a clumsy pirouette without falling over.

"Hey, do you dance, Danse?"

Popping the last beer open, he rolls his eyes. "Ha-ha. Danse-Dance. Never heard that one before, well done."

He learned this comeback from Cutler a long time ago, when his inability to move rythmically to music had been brought up for comedic purposes, and he's been using it ever since with good results.

It does its job this time as well. Word-plays seems to be far from Deacon's mind as he slowly turns in little circles over the earthen floor, rolling his hips in a positively distracting way.

"Me, I'm quite the legend on the dance floor. I won the Capital Wasteland championships two years in a row. My best number was the rrrrrruuuummmbbaaaa."

Danse snorts, trying to feign disinterest in what Deacon is doing with his pelvis. "Really? Well you got some, hrrm, moves there, I can see."

It's quite warm in the cave now, or at least he's started to sweat. The bottle is comfortably cool against his clammy palms. He holds onto it like a life line as there seems to be no end to the physical demonstration happening in front of him. If it doesn't let up, he shall have to put the chilled bottle down his pants.

" _When the rumba rhythm starts to play, dance with me, make me sway…_ " Deacon sings in a register low enough to make Danse think of his naked skin again. God, that raspy voice does things to his nether region. He moves a leg to cover his crotch, just in case.

Holding his arms as if embracing an imaginary dance partner, Deacon staggers around for a few waltzy steps, wooden add-on banging against the rocky ground.

" _Other dancers may be on the floor, dear, but my eyes will see only -_ "

He mis-steps and teeters precariously for a second before losing his balance. Danse begins to rise, but before anything can be done Deacon tips over like an overloaded brahmin and crashes head first into the stick-bed.

"Ooof! Shit. I'm fine. I'm fine." He is up again almost immediately, sunglasses still in position and with a determined look on his face. "I absolutely planned to do that. Just wanted to test what gravity was like over here."

Relieved, Danse lets out a booming laugh. It did look funny, and Deacon seems to be ok. Plus he got a nice view of the man's behind.

"Gravity is much the same everywhere, I would expect." He grins into the bottle, looking up from under his brow.

Deacon smiles back, his features soft in the dim light. His chin is already a darker shade than it was this morning. For a ginger, that is quite something. He must need that razor twice a day to hide any red stubble. The desire to touch him is becoming rather urgent. Danse shifts on the bag he's sitting on. He notes with some interest that the two top buttons of the yellow shirt have mysteriously come undone.

Deacon is regarding him with an inscrutable expression. "You really gave up your career to get me out. Why?"

He shrugs. "I couldn't stand it. I just had to."

"You're a fascist with a conscience." Deacon purrs. "All this and conscience too. Must be my lucky night."

As the words sink in, a definite blush spreads over Danse's face. Is the agent flirting with him? Or is this another joke? He knows his limits when it comes to reading emotionally charged situations. At least his dick seems to think it's a display of mutual interest.

He can sit here and be stoic, playing it safe as per usual. But he doesn't really want to, damnit. He wants to push this man up against the wall, get close contact, kiss and touch him all over. But to get there he must take a risk, force the moment to its crisis. Do something bold.

"So." Deacon says, moving closer. "Mind sharing that bag with me? It looks really - "

"Would you like to dance?" he blurts out. Wait, is Deacon coming over to sit next to him? Not a terribly tactical suggestion then. He kicks himself mentally, digging short nails into his palms in frustration. _Stupid._

"Um, what?" Deacon has stopped in his tracks. Confusion plays over his features for a split second before he sets his mouth in that easy almost-smile. "Sure. Why not. I could use the exercise. Lately I have just been, you know, hanging around."

A wrong move, but all is not lost. He can still save this. Danse gets up, wearing what he hopes is a confident smirk. "Great. Um. May I?"

Deacon takes the offered hand with a courteous nod. His own hand is strong, callused, and healed and whole again, like he never was on board the _Prydwen_ , never had his fingers smashed to pulp by Danse's former comrades. Tiny scars mar his wrist, testaments to the many days and nights he hung from the ceiling.

"All right, let's do this. Let's show this cave some elite-level dancing."

When he speaks, the corners of his mouth tighten in a certain way and it takes some effort not to grab him by the wig and kiss him right this instant.

"I have to warn you to mind your toes." Danse says. "I'm not very good."

"I'm sure you're plenty good, my friend. Don't sell yourself short."

Boldly putting a hand on Deacon's waist, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirroring sunglasses; red-faced and with tousled hair. He nervously looks down, busies himself with arranging his feet to minimize the risk of stepping on toes or wooden add-on. The butterflies in his belly swarm around like they're having seizures.

"Have you noticed we're the same height?" Deacon says. "What a picture-perfect couple we make. And everything within easy access too."

"I have noticed."

Encouraged, he leans closer. He has only done this with shorter people before, so it's a new sensation to fit so well together. Deacon's ear is right by his own. He smells of Brotherhood soap and cigarettes, mingled with a lethal undercurrent of gunpowder and power armor oil. Danse swallows, desire coiling in his guts. It has been a long time.

He changes his grip, aiming for a more intimate hold. More slow dance now than waltz. Mustering up courage, Danse leans in to kiss his partner's neck while failing to realize Deacon has frozen under his caresses. Losing himself in the feel of the other man's arm muscles and strong back, he is not ready for Deacon turning his head away.

"Hey now, careful of my toes there, you big lug." Gently but firmly, his dance partner detaches himself from the embrace and takes a half-step back.

"Oh. Toes. Sure."

It's like a slap in the face. It seemed to go well, but now…something has happened, and he has no idea what it was. Danse falters. They are still holding on to each other, but the distance between them seems like a mile.

"I'm sorry, let me rephrase that." Deacon says, squeezing his hand. "You can totally step on my toes. Anytime. I just got a bit overwhelmed in the toe stepping department."

Danse barely hears him. It's obvious now that Deacon only accepted his invitation as a joke. One of those jokes he doesn't know if they are jokes or not, like the poo hair bleach. Any second now the agent will let go and laugh about it, and tonight Danse will have a hard time sleeping because he blew it, again. Best to put an end to this before it gets embarrassing. Get out with head held high.

But he is pathetic enough to keep his hold on Deacon's waist; before the inevitable cold shower he wants this moment to last a little while longer. Pretend that some of this is real, that his heart is not beating so hard for nothing.

"Like I said. You can absolutely take liberties here. I won't mind. Danse?"

It could have worked out. He has grown fond of this man, helplessly so. Being so close to him is a pain, but knowing that he will leave soon is even worse.

Danse is woken from his miserable reverie by his butt being squeezed.

He can't help it; he flinches, mouth falling open with surprise.

"It's a sin to hide this by wearing pants. I swear, if you had been naked back at the bridge we wouldn't have been able to blow it up, we would've been busy jerking off to the sight of you."

So all is not lost - quite the opposite. The very opposite. Danse goes as red as a tato. "I can't believe you just said that!"

"Cross my heart. With an ass like this, you don't need a gun."

Desire overrules embarrassment as he roughly yanks his dance partner into full body contact. Their mouths clash together, quickly finding a perfect fit. Danse growls deep in his chest at the feel of teeth on his bottom lip.  Greedily, pulling Deacon's head back by his wig, he deepens the kiss.

This is happening. He is kissing the probable leader of a faction that has been his enemy for years, that tried to kill him no more than two weeks ago. Somehow it makes it all the more exciting. Deacon is pressing up against him, moving his hips in a way that is making his head spin. A nimble hand has found its way into his shirt and is playfully tweaking his nipples. There is a corresponding hardness rubbing against his own.

"Well I'll be damned- " Deacon says with a breathy laugh "- is this an XXL grenade in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?"

Danse doesn't notice how they got there, but suddenly he is pressed up against the stick wall. His hardness is pushing against the fly of his worn pants, straining and leaking. Swift fingers are making short work of his belt.

"Gotta appreciate civilian pants. If you had the Brotherhood jumpsuit on I would be here zipper-guessing and unbuckling buckles until morning." Deacon says, hot breath ghosting over Danse's mouth as he unbuttons his shirt one-handed. "I still don't know where to begin opening that thing, and that's saying something. I _know_ clothes."

"It's the Brotherhood entry level test" Danse pants, trying to haul the redhead in for another kiss. "If you can put one on, you're accepted."

He wants more kisses, more of everything. That silly yellow shirt is still too buttoned up and Deacon's oh-so-pale chest too covered. Danse wants to tear the shirt off him, bite his collarbones and lick his neck, have him naked right this instant. He makes a grab for the offending garment, but Deacon deftly avoids his hands while pulling his belt free from his trousers.

"If the Brotherhood had more people like you there might be hope." Deacon says, breath hitching as he is reeled in by the waist.

His lips part easily and if the little whimper is anything to go by he really likes two-handed butt grabs. Danse makes a mental note. 

"More people like me? I don't know if that is a compliment, coming from a subversive element such as yourself" he pants, only barely managing to form comprehensive words as Deacon kneels down and levels his mouth with Danse's painfully tight crotch. Damn, he looks good from this angle too. Looks wonderful, in fact. Danse grabs hold of the wall for support.

"Oh, it's a compliment all right. And I'm not just talking about your ass being an asset."

Deacon's breath is warm as he puts his lips to the fly, moving his mouth along the trapped erection. Tremors shoot up Danse's spine like fireworks. By now there must be a damp patch on his pants but at this point he's well past caring. Only very rarely has someone done this to him before, and it's scary being in such a vulnerable position, but he trusts this man, trusts him with his life; a man he doesn't even know the first thing about.

"Please, come on, please..." He reaches out to cup Deacon's stubbly jaw, caress his cheek. Cruelly, his brain forwards a memory from the cell; how he held the agent's face while giving him water. _It was the same, exactly like this. You don't deserve him wanting you._ Pushing down the bad thoughts he goes for the wig instead, stroking the greasy hair.

A quick pull on his pants, and his aching cock is finally freed.

"Now that" Deacon says, leaning back on his heels with an appreciative look, "is a bloody amazing dick." He resolutely moves forward and takes the tip in his mouth.

"Damn…oh, fuck -!" Danse moans. The contrast with the cool cave air and Deacon's hot mouth makes him weak in the knees.

There's no respite as a tongue teases his slit, trailing along it to the underside of the head and working the most sensitive spot there. Danse is almost painfully sensitive and hard as a rock. Making an effort not to thrust into Deacon's mouth, he gasps as his cock is worked.  A steady hand on his hip anchors him to the wall while the other makes twisty strokes on his shaft, palm spit-slick and rough. The feeling of hitting the back of Deacon's throat again and again is suddenly too much. Heat curls into a tense coil in his belly, ready to release.

"Aw, hey, I'm gonna - "

Just when he thinks he's about to explode, Deacon stops. Clamping down on the base with a thumb and finger, his mouth remains only a breath away from the tip of Danse's straining cock. He looks up over the rim of his sunglasses and Danse thinks he might come just from the glint of blue alone.

"Oh crap, I forgot to pick up my dry cleaning. Can you wait like 15 minutes? Or 20, depending on the traffic."

"W...what? Please…!" Danse manages, hands forming fists in the black wig. Dry cleaning? Traffic? "Please, please."

"Nah, I'm just kidding. I only use mink soap anyway. Work wonders for road leathers and tutus."

Deacon shifts position to adjust the angle of his head and neck. Danse moans as his whole length is suddenly swallowed in one go, all the way to the base. Wet heat engulfs him as Deacon's nose presses into his pubes.

"Holy fffu - oh god!" he babbles. It's so hot, and it's so tight. Deacon pulls at his hips and it seems he now has permission to thrust back. Carefully, he starts fucking Deacon's mouth with long, slow strokes. Following the jawline down to his throat, Danse thinks he can feel his dick moving inside as it's working its way back and forth.

"Oh god, oh damn." He tangles his fingers in the ridiculous wig, pressing his nails into the false scalp. It's getting increasingly hard to not just grab his head and let go. But the last thing he wants to do is accidentally hurt the man doing this for him.

"I'm..not...harming you? 'S okay?"

Deacon pulls off his cock, a thin string of saliva still connecting the tip to his mouth.

"You're not hurting me. Go as hard as you like, I've mastered this." He shines with pride, lips red and swollen from the exercise. "I got a mutant off once. I tell you, that was a challenge. Was hoarse for weeks."

Danse has a fleeting thought about mutant-sized dicks and gag-reflexes and the lack thereof, but then he's swallowed whole again. Deacon hums around his cock, throat muscles working to accommodate him, and it's good, oh so good. His hands are placed on the back of the wig, giving him leverage and permission. _Go._

"Damn, oh damn." he pants, fucking in earnest now with short, fast strokes, the tight heat of Deacon's throat burning every thought from his mind. Little stars begin to appear as two fingers rub small circles just behind his balls, pressing down on a special sensitive spot he didn't even know he had, his vision going white as waves of pleasure come crashing in and his mind is filled with this man - Abe, John, Ishmael, Deacon, all his thousand possible names melt together into one wordless prayer.

\--

Coming down from his orgasmic high, Danse finds himself on the cave floor. He think he might have passed out for a second. He's never come so hard in his life. Hopefully he hasn't been too loud, but he honesty has no idea whether he'd shouted to the high heavens or not.

"Dear god in heaven.." His body is like jelly. A drop of sweat runs down his face. He wipes it away with an arm that feels like a overcooked silt bean. "You, you're amazing. That was…amazing."

"You're welcome." Deacon says breathily. He is biting his lower lip, leaning on one arm while rapidly moving the other one up and down just outside Danse's field of vision. Danse fleetingly wonders what he's doing, then it hits him just as Deacon's lips part a fraction and he gives a quiet gasp.

"I could've helped you with that." He sits up, a bit hurt Deacon didn't wait until he was fully operational and ready to reciprocate, but also relieved. He has never touched another man sexually and if he's honest with himself he wouldn't have known what to do anyway.

"Naw, it's all good. It's not a tit-for-tat game."

Danse looks on in fascination as the redhead grabs a rag and wipes off his softening cock. It's a fine specimen as penises go; very pale, turning a reddish-pink at the tip. Danse decides he could absolutely try and touch it sometimes.

"Besides, you did your part by looking delish, all risen and ready." Deacon smirks, leaning back to grab a carton of water. "You're like the poster boy for the Leaving the Brotherhood-movement. Or maybe the insane work-out-movement. Greek sculptures look less fit than you."

His smile grows wider as Danse goes red again, feeling the other man's appreciative gaze on his body. He gratefully takes the water that's being offered and downs the carton in big gulps.

Refreshed and post-orgasm warm and loose, his comfy sleeping bag is starting to look like a good option. Danse gets up and shuffles over to where it lies, laid out on the bed of sticks. And now, the desert after the meal: the afterwards cuddle. It's one of his favourite things: sharing the body warmth of another person, snoozing together, delighting in shared closeness. He lies down, checks over his shoulder to see how far behind Deacon is.

It turns out he is as far behind as the cave allows. Pants buttoned, and perfectly composed, he looks as if he's ready to go out on a mission.

Danse swallows, uncertain of how to proceed with the situation at hand. This is not going according to his blueprint of intimate relations.  They have, after all, engaged in amorous activities, and some form of closeness is surely to be expected at this stage? He arranges his limbs in what he hopes is an appealing pose, one arm slung out invitingly. Maybe Deacon just needs some encouragement.

"Hrm. My sleeping bag has room enough for two."

"So the Bros don't have to remove their armour to take a nap. How practical." Deacon looks tense, his half-smile strained. It's obvious he knows exactly where the exit is.

The perfect afterglow seems far away. Danse suddenly feels the chill. "You're not gonna sleep? It's late."

"In a while. I just gotta smoke first. Being a slave under nicotine - horrible. Well, it's not much of it left in these pre-booms anyway, just asbestos and paper. Anyway, gotta keep some vice, right? Now that I've stopped with the fluffy handcuffs and the cabbage heads."

As Deacon pushes the stick-wall to the side, the cold wind extinguishes much of the warmth in the cave. The noise from the rain grows louder for a second, then he's outside and the protective wall is back in place. Danse shivers in his warm cocoon. Outside is a grey mist of downpour. A dog wouldn't be put outside in this storm. Before sleep takes him, he briefly wonders what kind of Railroad business had made Deacon go out for this particular 'smoke', in this weather.

\--

He wakes sometime during the early hours, momentarily disoriented by the humid darkness. It's eerily quiet. The rain has stopped. Deacon lies curled up on top of the bags with his back to the cave wall, one arm under his head and wig and shades still on. Danse regards his still form through the gloom, uncertain if he's asleep or if his eyes are open.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes! *shakes fists* I did it! I finally got to the "/"-part of Danse/Deacon, and hopefully while staying somewhat in character! I re-wrote the lead-in to the sex like three times, to make it plausible. :D Hope you like it!
> 
> Oh and I totally had [this awesome fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6140860) in mind when mentioning Deacon/mutant :D
> 
> The song Deacon sings is Dean Martin's ["Sway"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ccx2QH0NgCs)


	11. Intermission in the woods

You don't want to get humorous with every bald-headed man you meet, because the first one you tackle may be a deacon.  
_\- George Horace Lorimer, Old Gorgon Graham_

\---

 

He has just reached Radio Tower 38 when he spots the little rat-faced man. The morning mist lies like a thin shroud over the valley, almost obscuring the cluster of dark shapes strewn across a rocky slope: MacCready, a tent and a dog. No mistaking good old Mac. Deacon would recognize that 50/50 ratio of hat vs body mass anywhere.

It would be now, early morning, that they'd meet. Under normal circumstances Deacon's night shift would just have ended while MacCready, who hates operating in the dark, would emerge bleary-eyed and swearing from whatever hole he'd holed up in. But the setting is definitely too rural for Mac. He must have lost his way between Goodneighbour and Diamond City.

The sun is a thin sliver of lemon in the grey sky, slowly rising over the tree tops and warming the back of Deacon's black wig. MacCready is busy with stamping out a small cooking fire, momentarily oblivious to his surroundings. The dog is licking its crotch.

Deacon creeps closer. He can feel his long confinement in the tiring leg muscles, his back and stomach smarting from the effort of keeping his wobbly frame in check. The sneaking is passable now, far from his pre-Maxson skills but good enough to set off on the long walk back to Vault 111. He's been practising while Danse has slept - getting better and better in secret while acting wing-clipped and helpless in front of the ex-Paladin.

The little fall he performed yesterday had worked out to perfection. Getting Danse to relax and laugh, then getting his dick out. It had been the polite thing to do: give the man a blow-job as a _Thank you_ and _Bye, see you around, maybe_.

He really should have left sooner. Maybe the blowjob had been a mistake. All the warning signals had been there - Danse's constant blushing and how his eyes lit up whenever he looked at Deacon, and oh shit, the sleeping bag big enough for two - yeah, he'd have to chalk this up as a lapse of judgement. It had been a great big dick though, and one of his finer head-givings. But not worth the risk.

Soon Danse will wake up and wonder where his cave-partner has gone off to. By then he'll be far away. And eventually Danse will forget about him and find a lovely nobody and settle down, chop wood, carry water, have a happy life. While Deacon will save the world or die trying and everything will surely be rainbows and kittens.

But first he gotta say hi to MacCready. See what is up with the mutt.

The wind is blowing favourably towards him, carrying his scent away from the dog. The ground is soft and the right kind of yielding for his wooden sole. Perfect.

He lets himself materialize just behind MacCready's back.

"Hey, Macster."

A splutter and a dropped coffee mug. MacCready whips around like he just heard a Deathclaw cry or a You Guys growl, his rifle halfway off his shoulder before his mug even touches the ground. For a second he looks like he's seen a ghost. The dog seems unruffled by the whole thing.

"Deacon." MacCready quickly returns to his normal snarky self, rifle once again resting comfortably on his shoulder. Smiling ever so slightly, he pushes his hat up by the brim. The pair of .308 bullets gleam in the pale morning light. They make him look like a prat, but they also make him look dangerous.

"Word on the street is that you died...again. Whenever I hear that, I have to ask myself which Deacon they're talking about."

It's weird, but he's happy to see MacCready's pinched rodent face. Clearly he's been away from normal people for too long.

"Rumours are only sometimes true my friend. Is Hancock secretly banging his way through the Children of Atom? Is that noodle-bot in Diamond City Valentine's long lost brother? Is Deacon really dead? The answer is: _oh_ yes, yes and no, clearly not. Look at my pink rosy glow. Definitely still alive."

MacCready glares at his leg in a not very polite way. "Alive, but chewed on? That looks all kinds of wrong. What happened?"

"Got into a bit of a snag. Then I got out of it. All this..." - he gestures to his faulty limb; clad in tattered grey pants and wrapped in straps of leather to hold the wooden sole in place, it looks like the leg of a mummy - "...it'll be as good as new after a few rounds at the Doc's."

MacCready hums non-committally. He morosely regards his spilled coffee while grappling for a cigarette. It's not unusual to see Mac unkempt and dirty, but his coat is really extraordinarily mud-stained and dusty today. Must have been quite the hike to come up here. And with a tent? And a dog?

Deacon moves weight to his good foot as Mac bends down to light a cigarette on the embers, then nods in the affirmative as the cigarette is offered. He takes a long drag while Mac fishes out another one from the pack and lights it in the same way.

"I never seen you hook up with a mutt before. It's not even fat enough to make a decent meal out of."

"Horrible. Just horrible. Dogs are not for eating, you savage. Well, not unless it's an emergency." MacCready looks affectionately at the white-brown mutt, who is busy sniffing a fallen tree. "She's a good scent hound. Borrowed her from a guy who owed me. I hope she'll bring in some sweet, sweet caps. And she's good company too. Aren't you, Booey?"

The dogs ignores him in favour of decorating the tree with a little trickle.

Deacon snorts. "So you and Boo-Boo are out here looking for truffles then? Rad rabbits? A better business plan?"

"Nah, I got hired to take out a guy who's supposedly somewhere around these parts. In the bleeping nature." MacCready scrapes mud off his heel against the other boot. "I hate nature. It's wet, and if it's not wet then it's too dry. Anyway, since you passed through this area, maybe you seen him? Big dark-haired man, about 25-30 years old, scar over one eyebrow. Not a gunner or a raider. A lost sheep."

Deacon smiles his best, warmest smile that is known to melt the pants of women and make men faint with delight. "Oh, _that_ guy. Brown eyes, light skin, right? No I've never seen a guy like that. Cross my heart and hope to die."

MacCready rolls his eyes so hard it's almost audible. "Yeah yeah. _Have_ you seen him?"

"Listen Mac, here's how I'm psychic. I do know the man who hired you to kill this unheard of stranger."

"You do." MacCready doesn't sound surprised, just tired. After all, they've known each other for a long time. "If you know that, then you must know who the mark is." Funnily enough there is still a glimmer of hope in his eyes, like Deacon would actually tell him anything useful.

"The guy who hired you...Let me see, hmmm…oh! Yes!" Putting one hand on his forehead, he turns his face to the sky for divine inspiration. "It's coming to me now! Sour demeanour, light-skinned, big flat nose and looks like an ape? Thank you, thank you, you're welcome."

"That is the guy."

"Congrats MacCready, you've been hired by the Very Unofficial branch of the Brotherhood of Steel. I also know that he didn't say that his name was Rhys. Because it is. And he's trying to use you to impress his boss."

MacCready makes a face, like he can't believe Deacon would even suggest background information would be of any importance. "Brotherhood or not, I don't care. I tell him where he can pick up the body and he gives me the agreed amount of caps. That's it. Then I have almost enough to get Duncan to a real doctor. Only have to do maybe two more jobs after this one."

Deacon listens attentively. He is always keen to hear the reasoning of people like MacCready. What makes them tick, their motivations, how he can work them. This one, thankfully, is easily worked.

"Look. My advice is to pick up your mutt, make a 180 turn and find another murder-for-caps-deal. This is not a guy you wanna kill."

"Don't give advice where none is asked for, old man." MacCready hisses. "The amount of caps I'll get for this guy..."

How the fuck did Rhys get that many caps anyway? Maybe this is something bigger than one revengeful Knight. Maybe Maxson chipped in too.

Deacon shifts his stance ever so slightly, pushing his shoulders back and straightens out of his nonchalant devil-may-care slouch. He can practically feel Mac's hackles rising. _I'm an adult, Mayor MacCready. A scary adult that you need to take into consideration or your ass gonna get whooped._

"I never forget anything. You know that. So the question I'm asking myself right now is, who would you rather have working against you? My people, or the ape-like gentleman who got you this gig?"

He waits, letting his words sink in. MacCready's expression goes from aggressive to upset to resigned. One could say a lot about this guy, but he isn't stupid.

"Why should I bump into you now of all… Wait, I didn't just bump into you, did I. Have you been stalking me again? Okay, fine. You owe me one."

With perfect bad timing, the dog suddenly remembers its purpose and springs to life. It sniffs the air, gives a little bark, then sets off towards Deacon's track from where he emerged out of the woods. Its shaggy white-brown behind wags as it apparently finds something interesting. Turning to follow the track, it begins sniffing its way back to its temporary master and the other human.

MacCready and Deacon watch it work in silence. The dog, oblivious to its surroundings, methodically follows Deacon's trail to its conclusion and promptly walks straight into his good leg. It sits back on its haunches, tail wagging.

"Waff!"

Deacon looks at it blankly. "Are you sure this is a real dog?"

"Shut up. I mean, shoot, look at that." MacCready says. "You do know the mark. You smell of him. He's really close, isn't he. Hoo boy, just my luck."

There's an unexpected surge of blood to Deacon's groin at the words, and a orchestra of alarm bells going off in his head. He only did a quick wipe-down before he set off. Of course a dog, no matter how old or blind, would pick it up. Not good. No good.

"Nah, that's my after shave: Eau de Rotten Radstag. Dogs love it. Chicks dig it. It strengthens my allies and weakens the resolve of my enemies."

"See, the mystery man not called Rhys gave me this" MacCready fishes out something round and soft from his bag. "It belongs to the mark. Dog is set on it. Booey is really good with her nose."

The head of a teddy bear. A fucking toy. Deacon laughs himself silly on the inside. Danse had a teddy bear? Well of course he had. And now it has grown big claws and sharp teeth, allowing mercenaries to follow his trail. The Railroad people in Rivet City must have added this to his box of Personal Belongings, fabricating some hoohaa about it being a gift from the proprietress of the orphanage. He wonders what they named it.

Mac stuffs it back into his satchel. "Hey Booey, time to go, yah girl. That's my girl." The dog has squeezed herself between his legs, wriggling as she's getting her ears scratched. She's so dog-happy she doesn't know what to do with herself.

MacCready looks up from under his hat. "So, are you heading back to your new HQ now, wherever that is? Leaving your friend out here?"

The question is innocent enough, but for a second he wonders if MacCready has taken up the spy business. Maybe it's him they're after and not Danse. 

Calming himself down, Deacon takes a deep breath. It's time to go; the Vault is beckoning. "I wish you and Duncan the best, Mac, you know that."

Turning to leave, he thinks about his people at the entrance: Rowdy and Zeke. The loyal Cats have been taking turns watching the unmoving concrete for the past six months. Surely they can manage a few more days. Because there are things that needs to be done over here too.

"MacCready." The sniper looks up, surprised that he's lingering. He's surprising himself a lot these days. "Tell you what. Let's do some trading."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Rowdy and Zeke, as in the Atom Cats. :) Some meta: I'm thinking Deeks didn't sit and watch over the entrance 24/7 for a year all by himself. Since the Railroad doesn't know about his lil' project, he must have had other people to help him. The Atom Cats have an 'Ally' mark on their board (so RR knows not to attack), they help people (something that Deacon complains Des doesn't let the RR do), Zeke looks like Deacon and one of their members is called Johnny D, like the old Railroader (from the terminal entry in RR HQ).


	12. You may forget but let me tell you this

"Deacon. I knew you would leave at some point. I was, and am, fully aware of your obligations and strong commitment to your cause..."

Standing at attention just outside the cave entrance, Danse bears an expression of stoic suffering. The roasted molerat he had been eating when Deacon arrived lies forgotten at his feet.

"It was perhaps naive of me to expect that you would take the time to say goodbye, and so I apologize if my behaviour at this moment isn't appropriate for - "

It's not going splendidly awesomely. Upon his return, Deacon expected to duck either a punch in the face or a giant bear hug, the first easier to cope with than the latter. But this solemn and apparently well-rehearsed speech has caught him off guard. Danse is radiating heartfelt incomprehension as to why he had been so cruelly abandoned, and this after putting his dick down Deacon's throat. In Danse's view of the world, deep-throating must be one step away from marriage.

"I don't do goodbyes." Deacon says quickly before the big lug can get too emotional. Danse shuts his mouth with a clap.

"I do Hellos and How Are You's and Wanna Fuck's. I also do special deliveries."

The head of the teddy bear is slightly out of shape from riding under the ammo boxes in his backpack, but Danse doesn't seem to care. He takes the offered lump of stuffing and textile, dark eyes wide with awe.

"Where the devil did you find this?! How on Earth -?"

The teddy is the perfect distraction. A complete derailment of the speech. Deacon congratulates himself on his forward thinking.

"Magic. I'm made of magic. Sorry the body isn't there to complete the bear."

"If you would give me the body as well…now that would truly be magic." Danse turns the little object around in his big paw, tense features softening. "I never had the whole toy. Got it just like this. I grew up in an orphanage and we didn't have much. Kept it for sentimental reasons - it was mine. We had to share everything else."

So the Rivet City branch couldn't even be arsed to find a _whole_ teddy bear to create memories from, despite the 'wealth being awash with them. He must bring this up at the next meeting.

"But really, how…I kept this in my locker on the Prydwen?"

"Knight Rhys' been out and about. He's running his own vendetta against you. Hiring mercenaries." Deacon lowers his voice to a movie-trailer testosterone bass. " 'This time - it's _personal._ '"

Danse stares at him in surprise as he pockets the head. "Rhys gave it to you?"

"No, the mercenary did." Although 'gave' might not be the best term to describe Mac's actions when he had caught on how much Deacon wanted the worthless thing. An embarrassing large amount of .5.56's had changed hands.

"This sad part of a teddy was for the sniffer dog to sniff. There might be more dogs and people coming for you; Rhys' pockets are deep and his tiny mind is set on revenge. Best that you go further into the wilderness until this dies down. I'm thinking Zimonja. I'm gonna take you there, teach you a couple of tricks and a bit of common sense, seeing that you are as vulnerable as a slimy snail without its steel shell."

As Danse draws in breath to ask what a snail is, Deacon makes a couple of calculations. Reach Zimonja by sunset and teach Mr Hotbuns some skills so he'll have at least a chance of surviving. Then he can spend the night walking back to Vault 111 and check up on the Cats.

\--

An hour into the trek and they are moving along a ridge, steadily heading north. The sun has gone into hiding; around noon clouds sailed in from the west and now a light trickle douses the landscape with mildly luminescent drops.

Danse delights in the raw air biting his nose and the muted grey of the sky. The weather up here is refreshingly changing.  He can't even remember if it's September or October but it doesn't matter because he is inexplicably happy. The Railroader walks at his side with an almost perfect gait, chattering about the back history of some big water cleaning project in Capital Wasteland.

All things aside, there is no denying he really enjoys Deacon's company. He is having fun trekking through the wild with this talkative companion. Better not think of the future looming further up the path, the one where he is left alone again, and for good.

A rag stag rises bellowing from a shrubbery. Danse shoots it between two of its four eyes. After they have bagged the best pieces of meat, Deacon picks up the thread by describing some technicalities about water filters. A while later, they kill a pack of wild dogs with the aid of a big stick (Danse) and a scary-looking dagger (Deacon). No use wasting good ammo on anything smaller than a wolf.

The landscape dips and opens into a ravine. The trail snakes right along it, past an area strewn with car skeletons - either an ex-car park or dito scrap yard. A group of dead ferals decorate a pile of trash. Deep scratch marks and severed heads tell of a Deathclaw, but Deacon is calm so Danse doesn't bother to point out his findings. Looking closer, he can see that the fluids from the bodies have dried into dark blotches. The 'claw must have been here hours ago.

"Check hollows and other potential hiding places _before_ you move past them" Deacon whispers. "Or someone'll take a bite out of your back. Now, the ravine - can you hear it?"

There's nothing but the wind in the dry grass. He listens in vain as Deacon moves atop the trash pile to get a good view of the gash running alongside the trail. After a moment Danse can hear it too: a rustle in a dried-out shrubbery. Something is moving at the bottom of the ravine. Deacon leans forward, pistol at the ready.

A wolf detaches itself from the branches, a molerat pup in its mouth. It shows them no interest whatsoever as it trots off. Deacon visibly relaxes. With no predators or other murderous beings around, he makes the most of his elevated position:

"It ain't much but I call it home. My domain. My kingdom."

The broad sweep of his arm is majestical enough, but considering he's only one meter up from the ground the effect is somewhat lost.

"My kingdom for a horse. Two of my kingdoms. Last bid, I'll give you three and a half of my kingdoms for a damn horse."

Danse laughs, though he doesn't get the joke. "What is a horse?"

"It's one of those elongated brahmins. You know the statues with important pointy-nosed men sitting on big animals? Those are horses."

Memories of the Brotherhood HQ comes to mind. Framed colourful pictures on the walls. Ancient leaders with big hats pointing to a glorious future on top of white or brown shiny animals. Sometimes with flags in the background. And roaring male lions.

"Horses and lions seem to have been very important for people back then."

"Lions are awesome." Deacon says. "Big cats, what's not to like."

"They were truly noble creatures. I would have liked to see one. A shame they are extinct now." It's saddening, thinking about how much is lost. Meeting a lion must have been quite the experience. He wonders how big they really were - like a truck, or a train wagon?

On the other side of the trash heap, more car parts lie scattered. They shine bright as jewels against the muddy ground, the rain bringing out the lacquer reds and blues and the rosy rust patterns. Danse spots something with potential under a large tire . Picking up a metal rod that isn't too badly corroded, he twirls it between his fingers, estimates its weight. Maybe it could work as a close-combat weapon. At least it would serve the purpose better than the stick he's carrying.

There's a faint shout behind his back. When he turns around, Deacon is down on one knee at the foot of the trash pile, face towards the ground.

"Did you lose your balance? Better be extra careful when it is raining. Metal surfaces get slippery."

There is no response. Deacon isn't moving from his crouched position.

Danse stops wielding the rod. Fully prepared to laugh at a possibly approaching punchline, he waits a few seconds for something to happen. Deacon is frozen, holding onto a dried tyre so hard that his knuckles have turned white, gun-hand clutched to his belly.

"What are you doing? Is it the leg? Are you in pain?"

Is this a special crouch used by the Railroad - are they about to be attacked by the Deathclaw and is this a signal he should understand and take cover? Unnerved, Danse takes the few quick steps to reach him.

Grabbing Deacon by the arm and pulling him to his feet, fear grips his heart. His companion's face is ashen, breath coming quick and shallow.

The leg, however, looks fine.

"What is it? You're getting me worried here. Deacon?"

For a moment there is just raspy breathing. When he finally speaks, his voice is thick and distant.

"I thought I was gonna die."

"From that little fall?" Danse looks at the trash pile again. As far as he can see, it contains no sharp or poisonous objects that could explain this strange behaviour.

The helping hand he placed on Deacon's arm is shaken off, more out of habit rather than any conscious thought. Danse still chooses to regard it as a good sign.

"I haven't slept properly. That's the problem. Gotta get some shut-eye and I'll be good as new." Deacon says mechanically. He looks haggard and… old. Danse hasn't really thought about his age - has never looked at him that way, been too busy dealing with his personality - but the man in front of him can't possibly be a day under 45.

"Sleep is good." Danse says. He scans their surroundings for any approaching enemies. Priority one: get companion to a safe place where it's possible to set up camp. Zimojna can't be far now. The path should point right to it.

"Come on, let's get going." He gestures to the trail with the rod, not prepared for the reaction. Deacon's face turns from grey to white. He seems to stare, transfixed, at the piece of metal in his hand.

_Ah._

The rusty rod bears a resemblance to something he saw in the upper left compartment of Maxson's horrible toolbox. While this one is discolored by time, the other one was shiny and had electric cords sticking out its end. But the general appearance is pretty much the same.

It's logical now when he thinks about it: Deacon has not slept nearly enough and sleep-deprived as he is, the physical reminder of what happened to him caused a stress reaction. Danse can absolutely sympathize with pushing things down, ignoring warning signals and carrying on as normal until the situation becomes overwhelming. Sending a thought to the good Dr Cade, he tries to remember what the doctor had said during their sessions together. What to do in case of PTSD-symtoms out in the field.

It's no good. Nothing comes to mind and he can't think of anything himself except a hug. He would love to hold Deacon close and chase the stress away with his embrace, but he has a hunch it wouldn't be welcome.

Maybe a mirthful tone of voice could help. He clears his throat: "Let's go, soldier. Can't stand around here all day."

No, damn. 'Soldier' - bad choice of word.

"I am absolutely going." Deacon says, unmoving. "Just a second."

Turning slightly so the rod disappears from Deacon's view, he sends it with an under-hand throw into the dead columbine, his body blocking its trajectory. The spy seems to be staring at his hip area, where the rod was the last time he had visual contact with it.

Standing frozen to the spot, Deacon flinches when Danse tries to take him by the arm again. A light touch to the shoulder does the trick. He takes a step, then another.

Then another.

\--

Vertigo is sucking him down to a place where he can't breathe. Back on board the _Prydwen_ , the noose comes on to see how many times he can faint before a stim is needed. His brain puts up a formidable fight against his body trying to shut down, and he can just about follow Danse away from the garbage heap. Red flashes shoot through his system, old and familiar since years back. Phantom pains for that long-lost spine. Head swimming, he gasps for oxygen to fill his burning lungs. The noose tightens as he methodically, carefully puts one foot in front of the other.

The thing with stimpaks, he almost says out loud to Danse; they can make you see things you never thought you'd see in your life. Your own guts pulled out and lying on the floor in front of you, trampled. He could have gone a whole lifetime without seeing that. Skin, strips of it, bloody and pale, _too much_ _skin_.

The stims let you feel things you didn't think it was possible to feel. His body was like new every time Maxson opened him up with fingers and hands, working the rod Danse was holding, or maybe another one just like it. The relentless cold of the metal pushing its way inside, again and again, fizzing with electricity. He thought he could cope with this too. _Mercer, Bolthole, Switchboard._ Some escaping, some gunned down, dying. Eyeballs bulging from the pressure of bullets taking up precious cranial space. Synths and humans on fire. A blocked escape tunnel. Maxson's red-hot razor.

And Barbara lies dying in the field.

It's just nature's way of settling the score. He deserves every bit of it. Shame rises around his ankles, laps around his waist, fills his mouth.

"Are you okay?"

Danse's voice comes booming through the depth, a lifebuoy thrown out to keep him above the surface.

"Deacon?" A warm hand at the small of his back, and for once he lets it sit there.

"Just a spell of vertigo." he rasps, balance and posture improving with each step. _Good, keep it together._ "That pile of garbage was higher than I thought. Did I tell you I have vertigo?"

 

\---

The rest of the trek is uneventful. In a complete contrast to before, Deacon barely speaks, just a whispered "You-guys, two on our left." after about an hour of total quiet. Danse can't think of anything to say so he just lets silence reign until, finally, there is a shack perched on a jagged hill that must be Zimonja.

The kills needed to clear it are easy enough. The raider's bodies are carefully dragged out of view for any passing aircraft, their blood hidden in the earth.

\--

Danse looks on as Deacon quickly goes through the Raider's belongings and hauls forward a bottle of whiskey. He is used to asserting the suitability of his soldiers for different tasks, and he wouldn't even put this man on kitchen duty or floor sweeping. It's painful to see his hands trembling as they grapple with the bottle.

He's just about to intervene when, after four generous gulps, Deacon abandons the alcohol for the chem stash at the bottom of Danse's back pack.

"I'm just gonna take this one." He quickly peels off the packaging of a Med-x and flicks the needle to check that it hasn't passed its Best Before-date. "Stop me if I try to take more, ok? Just one so I can sleep."

"Okay, good. Are you sure though? You said before you didn't want to take them."

"It's the lesser of two evils." Deacon bites off. He injects the chem in his neck, then finishes off with another mouthful of whiskey. Without another word he curls up on Zimonja's only bed, wig and shades still on.

Danse is rewarded with a faint grunt as he carefully pulls one of the Raider's coats over him.

\--

Naturally, there is still no way he can sleep. Memories enter the wonderful cotton-soft chem cloud and shred it to pieces.

For example. A year ago almost to the day:

"'Tis the season where the land of the dead bleeds into our world!" he says with a spooky voice to Tinker Tom as they share a package of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes. "You've seen the decomposing decorations of cats and orange round things, right? Didja know the Big Booms happened just before the Halloween holiday?"

"Totally knew that, D-man." Tom is sitting on a sarcophagus that is only partly emptied, his long legs dangling. "And it bleeds a'right. My folks, this time of year I can hear them talking to me. I just say 'Mom, Pops, come down from heaven!' and they're here, man. They seep right down into my brain! Like wooh. Spaced!"

He doesn't have to call on anybody, they come anyway. In the darkness under the Raider's coat, the Railroad casualties that he recruited stream past, their features clear like they were in life. Then his cold-blood killings; shimmering as if underwater, their sightless eyes stare, fish-like and dull. There are so many faces. He wants to blur them into anonymity, dispel the information. Isn't that was death should do - take and take until only contours are left? But he remembers everything.

There is a Jet in one of the coat pockets. He fingers it through the worn fabric.

\----

He must have slumbered off eventually, because he wakes. Outside the shack, the evening sun is beaming sideways from an orange-coloured horizon. Danse's broad back is visible through a gap in the plank wall.

He rises groggily from the hard bed. There is a promising smell of coffee in the air. Danse lights up when he shuffles into view, and bless him, there are two mugs balancing on a log next to the fire.

"Hey, you're awake! Come and sit in the sun. It'll do you good."

The lingering dream brushes past and dissolves. Inside his chest darkness coils into a tight spring, temporarily held back by the promise of the offered mug and Danse's bright smile.

"I told you, my skin type doesn't do UV."

Staring at the sun-lit log like it would jump up and start spewing fire, he only gives in when Danse encouragingly pats the place next to himself.

-

Not very much for being in the spotlight, Danse muses. This man would rather sit in the shadows, watching others. The spy is glaring at the big light in the sky like they have a personal vendetta going. At least now his sunglasses doesn't look out of place.

While Deacon sips the scalding hot but weak coffee, Danse takes the opportunity to study his features; his flat profile and slight overbite. Hair-thin pale scars are visible in the orange light of the setting sun. There's one next to the laugh-line on his cheek, another at the loose skin on his neck. A long white mark sweeps over his forehead.

"It's rude to stare you know." Deacon says, creasing the forehead mark as he raises one red eyebrow.

"How old are you, really? Did you have surgery to make yourself look younger or older?"

"Me, surgery? No I'm this handsome by nature." Deacon says automatically. "Besides, I'm afraid of scalpels."

"Well...but why haven't you changed your face then? It would be good since you are an agent... I mean." Danse looks into his mug for a good wording of what he's about to say. "It would be useful. Though I guess if you wanted to charm people to get information you would have picked a different face."

Deacon laughs, loud and clear. "Oh my god!"

"Oh, no, sorry, I didn't mean -" The capillaries in his face goes berserk again as he makes wild apologetic gestures with the mug. "I think you look great. Your overbite - it's charming."

"Danse, stop talking." Thankfully his companion doesn't look angry or hurt, but amused. Very amused. "Thank you for reminding me that my teeth stick out. No, I'm kidding! Danse, drink your coffee. Everything is fine."

"Oh good. Hrmm. I'm glad." He takes a big gulp, swallows around the foot in his mouth. The observation was badly worded and he shouldn't had said any of it, but it still feels good he could make his companion laugh. At least Deacon looks better now than he did before the nap. And as for the operations...there ARE tiny scars in his face. And his nose looks unnaturally pinched and on the small side. But he said...

As Danse ponders the tidbits of information he's been given over the last days, a clear picture emerges of at least one of Deacon's traits.

"Correct me if I am wrong. But I think that you are not always telling the truth."

The redhead makes a coughing noise, somewhere between a giggle and a hurl. "Well, you might be correct making that assumption. But if I say 'yes, that is true, I am a liar', then I would still be lying, right? So then what would that make me?"

His smile is sweetly beckoning. Danse scoots closer. "To be honest, I don't care what it would make you."

Encouraged, he decides now is a good moment to do what he wanted to do the whole day. Letting a hand travel along the log towards his companion, Danse readies himself to move in for a kiss -

\- but he is too late. Deacon is up on his feet, tense like a bow string.

"Okay, let's make a wanderer out of you. Chop chop."

 

-

 

They practise sneaking until the stars come out and then some. Danse's head spins with tips about caves and water supplies and raiders. There is far more to surviving in the Wasteland than he thought it would be. Who has ever heard of glowing mushrooms? He feels a bit confused by it all. He also feels really frisky, after watching Deacon work his body in different crouches and rolls.

It's a clear night. The sky is dotted with pin-point clusters of stars. Under the moonlight and dressed in Raider clothes, Deacon is almost unrecognisable. Except for the rooster-hair and dead-giveaway sunglasses.

"That's all I have. You gonna have a good life out here, Dancer." The Atom Cat-Raider smiles weakly. "I'm gonna head out as soon as I refilled the water containers."

"Oh. I understand that you have to go...you will be back? You could stay a while longer?" Bravely, he takes a step closer. He could lift up those sunglasses and Deacon would let him, and they could kiss right here in the moonlight and he'd lose his soul in those piercing blue eyes -

"I can't." Deacon looks away, clearly bothered by the conversation. "I don't stick around." He looks like he's about to say something else, but doesn't. There is a pause.

"I see." Danse says. There is a pain in his chest-area that is most distracting. "I shall miss you."

"No you won't." It almost comes out as a snarl. Danse blinks in surprise. "If that unlikely event should occur, remember that you and me, we don't like each other. I work to end slavery - you hold different views. Circumstances made things happen that... well, they brought us together - but this ends here. I'm sorry I got caught at the bridge and put you in this mess, all right? But it is what it is."

Thunder is blocking out Danse's hearing and making his head spin. The idea that he'll never see this man again is unfathomable. A blush spreads anew across his cheeks, but this time it's not caused by embarrassment.

"I do not wish for the past events to be undone. I have grown...fond of you in a way that is not very practical. Despite the synth issue, you are a good man, an altruistic -" 

"Stop. Please. If I say you don't know shit about me, then I wouldn't be exaggregating." Deacon pokes around in the embers from the fire with his boot. Flames shoot up from the coals, stirred to life by the influx of oxygen.

"Remember I said that I could be a synth and you would never know. Well, I AM a synth, Danse. One of those evil things you want to destroy. I used to be a Courser. I say 'used to be' because while the body is the same, the function of the coursing has stopped. Obviously. "

"I don't believe that. You said you had children.” There is no way this man is a synth. He would know. There are certain signs. There are definitely certain signs.

”They were my wife's biological kids. I was their step dad. Think about it, how can my memory be so good, and my moves so silent? You're right about the surgery, I change my face so I can be around for years and years and age naturally."

"No. You're lying again."

Deacon sighs. "I've been lying to you _all the time_. That's my modus operandi. Think about what you _do_ know about me: I lie. I tried to kill you and your fellow soldiers. I save synths: heaps of them." A twitch of the corner of his mouth. Fishing out a cigarette from somewhere, he bends down to light it on the fire. "You don't like the company I keep. In fact, you don't really like me all that much."

"I do, so help me. Even after you mentioned that you copulate with mutants." Danse says, attempting to lighten the mood. Make him laugh, make him stay. "I cannot believe I have engaged with someone who also…but it doesn't matter. All of that is irrelevant. Synths. Lies. I...hrm. I still care."

He wants this man, damn it. This Courser. Whatever he is.

Deacon's mouth is set in a straight line, jaw tense. "If you knew who I am and what I have done, you would have left me hanging in that cell and never thought twice about it."

"Absolutely not! Nobody deserves to be treated like that. The torture...it was appalling."

"You gave up your life with the Brotherhood because you think Maxson is cruel and his methods deplorable. But he only acts according to his demented beliefs. All for the cause. I can relate to that."

Behind them a bird flaps from one tree to another. Deacon takes a drag on his cigarette. The glowing end reflects in his shades like demon eyes.

"So hear me when I say this: if I had access to someone with the codes to shut down the Institute…The one guy sitting on intel that would save many lives, end slavery, and whose secrets I couldn't possibly get to in any other way -

Danse feels the blood drain from his face. _Don't say it._

" - I would have done exactly the same thing."


	13. The wild subside

The night is silent, except for the crackle of the bonfire and the imagined cogs turning in Danse's head. Sparks fly up in the clear air when a log collapses. Deacon carefully brushes one off his shoulder, just in case the Raider's dirty leather jacket has been exposed to something flammable. One can never tell with Raiders.

The flames are growing weaker as the fire bed turns to coal. The faint sound they make in their dying moments is enough to tease his brain into remembering. Synths and humans burn the same way. Their bodies shrivel and fizz as they blacken, bones splintering with a pop-pop-popping sound.

Danse is staring at him with brows knotted together, surely wondering how such a despicable being can walk the Earth without self-combusting. It'll take some time for the idealistic guy to process what kind of person he has sacrificed everything for. Danse's moral is as white as the driven snow, well, minus the racism, and logically, if he was on a less fine-looking high horse, he'd surely try to strangle Deacon right about now. From his perspective it must be like Destiny cleared her throat and lobbed a thick one right in his handsome face. _Look at who you saved, ha ha, talk about misjudgement. Enjoy your new lonely life and your ex-friends trying to kill you. If your rescuee doesn't get to them first and tortures them to death._

Which is perfect. Hate is welcome, because then Danse won't miss him and won't come bumbling later on, trying to find Railroad HQ and make a mess of it.

He readies himself for the dismissal, redistributing weight to his good leg and setting his body up for a quick turn: grab the bags and leave before Danse does something emotional. He can worry about filling the water containers later.

"It doesn't matter." Danse says. He bites his lower lip - unsure of himself, or this entire situation, or whether he really shouldn't try to smash Deacon's head in with a rock now when he has the opportunity.

"What doesn't matter? That I'm a lying synth-saving Courser who tortures people? Or that I fucked a mutant?"

There is enough distance between them to comfortably avoid any physical confrontation, even with the bum leg slowing him down. He formulates a witty parting line in his head - something with kittens and Scandinavian interior design. The road burns at his back, stretching out long and winding, just waiting to be walked.

Danse clears his throat. "I should have said - but I'm not too good with words - that you matter more."

There are approximately 1701 reasons for leaving. Zero reasons for lingering.

Danse draws closer to him. He doesn't move.

Depart now or later. _It doesn't matter. I matter._ he thinks illogically. The cold stone in his chest stirs and becomes a tiny bit warmer. There's hurt in Danse's face, but his eyes are smiling. Moonlight paints a white halo around his bulky form and reflects off his dark hair, making him look like a saint that stepped out of a stained glass window.

They're close now, within reach of each other. The pull of the road is drowned out by the sheer mass of the ex-Paladin. Deacon looks away as gravity shifts.

"My cause awaits me. So I better. You know, leave."

"You should rest first. Get some proper sleep." Danse says, and no matter how preposterous the idea is, it still sounds good. Rest. He can feel his shoulders sag, heavy back pack sliding down to his feet.

The fire has died, all fuel that was left among the embers exhausted. Glowing snakes of light move over the black remains. Danse takes his hand and he doesn't prevent it from happening. Still looking at the coals, he debates whether to run now, or right away, or at once, or give in. The hand holding his is strong and calloused. He recalls how it felt on his head when Danse fucked his throat.

"You're persuasive, Dancer. If nothing else you could go into the Motivational Speaker circuit." he rasps, remembering the girth of the other man's cock as it slid down his gullet.

Sex would be nice too. Even nicer than rest. He makes a compromise. One fuck for the road, and then he'll be off.

"Before you leave, come sit with me." Danse says, and he nods.

-

Deacon came back. He came back and hasn't left yet. Surely that must mean _something_ , even if it doesn't mean much. The fluttering hope that has taken up residence in Danse's chest is hard to squash. There is nothing else he would rather want.

Thy sit next to each other on the bed, Zimonja's sparse board walls offering only minute protection against the night. He strokes Deacon's thigh, feeling hard, tense muscle under the ratty fabric. The other man regards him behind his impenetrable shades as he moves his leg to give better access. Danse reaches the inside of his thigh with slow, forceful strokes.

"I sacrificed a lot for your sake. I didn't know you then as I do now. You were just another fellow human being…" He lets his knuckles brush against Deacon's obvious arousal and is rewarded by sharp intake of breath.

"Not human actually, but go on."

Another step in the right direction: Deacon slides out of his leather jacket and drops it on the floor. His arms are bare almost up to the shoulder, slight suntan stopping at elbow-level. Warmth radiates from his body through the chilly night air.

"Now when I do know you - " Danse moves closer, touches his arm, his neck " - I would sacrifice it all again, a hundred times over. I don't believe you when you say you're bad. I do believe you are human." His breath hitches as a hand moves over his spine and dips down inside the back of his jeans.

"A hundred times over - so not a hundred and one-times then? Because of the mutant, right? It was only a small mutant, not one of the big juicy ones - "

The last word is spoken in three syllables as his mouth finds a sensitive spot under Deacon's jaw. The prickly stubble the agent never seems to be without is only mildly distracting. His hands roam under the other man's shirt, sliding over scarred muscle, the regular bumps of the rib cage. It's heaven to be near him, to finally be allowed to touch him properly. He decides he actually likes Deacon's stubble, and he positively loves the sounds he makes when his throat is kissed and nuzzled.

It's the first time they are really close, but also probably the last. He wants to make the most of it.

-

“I would sacrifice it all again a hundred times _or more_.” Danse insists between attacks on the special spot on Deacon's neck and the other special spot on his jaw. “Anyone would who knew you.”

He mewls as his jugular is nipped at, pulling hairs and clawing at Danse's scalp to make a point _(yes, nipping good)_ while trying to block out the words he just heard. Something still slips loose inside his mind, something akin to regret and sorrow, and he's just about to distract himself and get their cocks out when the other man pauses.

Danse takes his face in both hands, and just looks at him, drinks him in, as if he isn’t a fraud, a despicable coward, totally pointless. It takes every little bit of nerve he has not to close his eyes. He's very grateful for his sunglasses.

"Deacon -"

"Ah, you flatter me, Dancer. It would've be a shame though if I had been offed before I got the chance to perfect my strip routine".

Not panicking in the least, he gets up from the bed, dodging Danse's grabby hands trying to keep him close. Sex needs to happen pronto, and for that he must lose the pants and get his companion into proper fucking-mode.

Just out of reach, he stretches his back, pulls off his tee in one swoop. Danse's attention is clamped on him like a vice. It's both scary and exciting. An atom bomb could detonate behind his back and his gaze wouldn't budge from Deacon's chest, ass, his everything.

Feeling brave, he runs a hand over his stomach, down inside the ratty pants to his shaven crotch. "Like what you see, big guy?"

Danse nods, transfixed, as Deacon fondles his cock while working the fly buttons fully open in what he hopes is a sexy way. It seems to be - if Danse had been a dog he'd be slobbering all over himself. Smiling, Deacon pulls his pants and undies off, his cock bobbing and leaking and very pleased to be out and about.

He smiles at how Danse's breath hitches when he slowly strokes himself, taking his time. Moonlight pours in through the very dubious board walls and paints his body with flecks of silvery blue. Working himself and the setup, he turns slightly to make sure his cock is presented in the best way possible.

"If I had been near my wardrobe I would have worn my lacy panties, specially for you."

Danse inhales so fast he makes a inverted sneeze-sound, almost like a pig's grunt. Deacon quenches a smile. It _is_ getting rather cold. The ex-Paladin quickly wipes his nose, attention fully on him again.

"My panties dig into my ass, chafe just the right way…" He moves his hips slowly, feeling his imagined underwear move over his cock as he strokes himself. "Lace feels sooo good. Easy to rip off, one forceful pull is all it takes."

"If you don't stop teasing and get over here soon I'm going to have a heart attack." Danse whines. He has unbuttoned his pants, magnificent dick in his fist.

"Oh no, can't have you go belly-up on me, that would very anti-climatic. Besides if anyone's gonna have a heart-attack it would be me, looking at your - oh my god, you just took off your shirt. Fuck, look at that. Why do you even wear clothes. Damn."

With his patented Take-Me-Here-and-Now-smile, he slides into the half-naked man's lap, straddling him. Danse's cock is rock-hard and heavy in his hand; a couple of quick strokes and the other man arches into his touch, making breathy, begging moans. Danse's hands are on him at once, touching his waist, belly, hovering around his dick but not quite daring to take the final step. It's quite endearing, the way he waits for permission, not knowing where the boundaries are.

"It's okay, no written invitation needed to say hi to Little Deacon."

"Roger - oh - that - " Split focus not being the other man's forte, Danse pants helplessly as his cock is worked. Brow knitted with the effort of focusing on this new task, he manages to wrap a big paw around Deacon's cock and give it a few tugs. Deacon hisses at the touch of his wonderfully calloused palm. Their cold noses rub together as he leans forward, trying to make the most of Danse's clumsy strokes. It's too soft, and too slow. He pushes into his rough fist, seeking out more contact. Thankfully, Danse gets it, and _this_ , fuck, this is what his hands should be doing all the time. They were clearly wasted on opening power armours or writing long reports about Brotherhoody things.

"I want you in me, like right now." Deacon breathes into the other man's neck, needy and eager, balls heavy against Danse's leg. "Been thinking about it since your dick said hello to my breakfast. You really have no idea how gorgeous you are, going around making me all excited and drippy."

He dodges a kiss, bites Danse's ear instead, then yelps as his ass is pinched in retaliation.

"I - " Danse moans loudly as Deacon does the twisty thing with the twirl at the end. " - wouldn't object to that."

"Perfect, just hold that thought and I'll be right on you." He reaches out for the bag containing the food stash. Just beneath the opening is the round shape he seeks. Holding the big egg under one arm, Deacon makes a hole with his knife and scoops out a tiny bit of its content.

"Mirelurk lube. Gotta be creative out here. I could tell you some stories about things that _don't_ work. Oh man. But this stuff, it's the best." He quickly works it between his palms, getting more and more air into it until a gooey white paste has formed. "See, perfect."

"For what? Oh, I understand." Even in the moonlight, he can track the rise of the other man's blush. Maybe they mixed some tato genes into this particular synth for a red-faced look.

"Are you sure we should try this, so soon after…you were injured. I am afraid I will hurt you."

It's laughable, and sweetly innocent, that his worry concerns fitting a human dick inside Deacon's lower anatomy. He almost kisses the other man's nose. "You're not gonna hurt me. Promise."

"Very well."

Danse sighs and leans backwards against the wall as his cock is lubed up with egg; he's very ready: rock-hard and sensitive. Deacon lets his dick touch Danse's as he moves slowly, grinding his butt against the other man's thighs and rubbing their erections together. Danse gets the idea and wraps a warm hand around them both, and oh, this is good. Deacon shudders in time with his strokes.

"Oh, damn. Damn." Danse already looks like he's about to go into overload, his mind lost in a haze of pleasure. No time to lose then. Deacon reaches back and puts a slick finger to his entrance, swirls it around the muscle, presses in with a long practised move.

A fleck of nausea sweeps through him, short and fleeting. Naturally: he hasn't eaten in quite a while. Ignoring it, he focuses on Danse's half-open mouth and lidded eyes, how beautiful his face is, the wonderful sensitivity of his cock. He adds another finger, working himself open.

Suddenly it's too much. Panic curls around his brain as his body remembers, freezes up. Sensations come flooding in: Maxson's hands, the electric rod, and wasn't there someone else in the cell? He had been out of it, drifting in and out of consciousness, but someone else has been there, had held him by the throat and forced -

"Wait." His stomach seems to have turned upside down, its sparse contents pressing at his lower esophagus. Had there been only one? The whole crew of the Prydwen could have walked through and he wouldn't remember - can't remember -

"Stop. Hey. Stop, please."

"…hah?" Danse bleats. Dazed, he lets go of Deacon's cock. "…is something wrong?"

"I can't do this, sorry. Unexpected glitch." Sliding off the other man's lap and onto the bed, it takes some effort to ignore the cramps racking through his lower belly. He reaches for the nearest wipe-friendly material: his pile of Raider clothes. The egg comes off his ass and fingers with a few sweeps of the worn tee. It's okay because Raiders are messy. _Slow, deep breaths_. No matter if this isn't working right now. It will work later. If not later then it's just another item on the Things Worthless Deacon Can't Manage-list.

What really matters is his mind and his trigger finger. Everything else is optional.

"What can I do?" Danse is at his side at once, Worry-dial turned up to the max and tumescent cock lying forgotten between muscular thighs. "Would you like some water? You are quite pale."

"No, thanks. It must be something I ate. Or didn't eat. But mostly - well, the past two weeks have not exactly been about lying on the beach sipping Piña Coladas and nibbling on gravlax sandwiches." He takes another deep breath, absently noting that his hands are steady. The cramps are subsiding, the lingering pain easy to suppress. Manageable.

The other man looks at him with such naked worry that meeting his gaze is impossible. Deacon flinches as Danse tries to put an arm around him. Like that is still an option.

"I think you are suffering from PTSD." Danse says, keeping well away from touching him. "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder." He's over-pronouncing the name, like his audience of one is completely in the dark about trauma.

"PTSD, I thought that stood for…" He aims for a pun, but for the first time since forever his mind goes blank. "...um…Pretty Tragic Synth Disaster."

Danse regards him with what must be pity and contempt.

"Or something. Ok, so maybe I have a bit of PTSD, but it's nothing, really." He smiles, all confident and in control again. Getting up on unsteady legs, he pulls the slightly eggy tee over his head, finds the tattered jeans among the clothes on the floor. Danse obviously doesn't know any details about what happened on board the Prydwen, or he would never have agreed to sex. Letting anything on wouldn't make it better and would only make Danse more miserable.

"Are you preparing to leave? I would advice against that, soldier." Danse says. "You are running yourself ragged. Stay the night. Sleep. You can leave first thing tomorrow."

"Remember what I said about the cover of darkness? I like to move at night, and it's night now, so..."

Danse looks up at the bright moon and opens his mouth to speak.

"Yeah, well, it's still darker than when the big light is up." Deacon says. He bends down to pick up his back pack, but as he moves his belly cramps again, and he almost stumbles.

"Agent Deacon." Danse booms. "You are not fit to travel. You will eat, and then you will take the bed. I know you value your privacy so I shall sleep on the ground level, just below the main construction."

There could be some sense in what the other man is saying. He's pressed himself hard before, and in the end it only landed him with addictions and bad decisions.

"And you'll sleep on the ground?"

Danse nods emphatically.

It's noble of the ex-Paladin but it wouldn't exactly help things. Indoor here is only slightly less outdoors than outdoors, and having Danse ten meters or two hands-breaths away wouldn't do much difference. Except it would, to Danse's back in the morning after sleeping on hard ground. Deacon shakes his head.

"No, we'll…we can share the bed. Bed sharing - not a problem. We do it all the time in HQ." A memory flashes to the surface; that night when he went to sleep between Glory and Drummer and woke up between Carrington and a very much unwashed Tom. What a bad trade-off.

"Good. Then that's settled." Danse dresses himself with military efficiency, arranges his hair into a neat fortress. "I shall cook you something. And then you will sleep."

Deacon snorts, somehow deeply grateful. "Yes, Sir."

-

He lies at the edge of the bed, as far away as possible to avoid the heat of the other man's body. Danse is like a human (well, synth) furnace, and one could probably fry eggs on him if one was so inclined.

As usual sleep is hard to come by. He considers shooting up another Med-X, but at this stage he's well on his way to a new addiction and Carrington can only do so much for hardened druggies like himself, no matter how many Addictols he'd produce from his dirty off-white coat. He just gonna have to stick it out until Danse is asleep, then collect his things and leave.

The moonlight makes Danse's skin look translucent. The image of the saint comes back, but this time a sleeping one, an effigy in a cathedral. A sleeping giant.

There is something soothing in the way the other man's chest rises and falls. He allow himself to close his eyes, letting his head drop on the bag he choose for a pillow. Danse blocks out the world by his mere presence. The murmur in his head is drowned out by the soft snoring.

For the first time since the bridge, he sleeps soundly and without nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -  
> My lonely D/D 'ship sails on! :) I imagined this fic being like 2000 words but obvs I'm way over that and I have to say I like Danse much more now then I did at the start. One or two chapters to go! 
> 
> Btw I would dearly like to see a mod that adds lace panties to Deacon's wardrobe. He'd look sooo good in them. :P
> 
> The idea for Deacon taking his clothes off in a sexy way before riding someone was inspired by [this excellent fic](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6855.html?thread=17146055#t17146055).
> 
> Thanks y'all for the feedback so far, it's very inspiring! <3 :D


	14. Down among the dead men

Forgive me, baby but don't worry. Love is always having to say you're sorry. /Nick Cave

There was a door to which I found no key  
There was a veil through which I could not see  
Some little talk awhile of me and thee  
There seemed — and then no more of thee and me. _/Omar Khayyam  
_

 

It's nice and warm, and Danse doesn't want to wake up. The light level means it's due time to rise and prepare his departure for the canteen. The bed is so comfortable though and he really doesn't wanna. But Haylen will be waiting by the armory like she always does, eager to start the day. He stretches, and is jolted awake by the unfamiliar creaking of the springs. This is not the Brotherhood standard issue mattress.

His eyes fly open as reality hits. Deacon.

Staring at the plank wall located very close to his face, he tries to recall everything that happened yesterday. Deacon came back. He instigated carnal activities. Surely that must count as a positive sign for their further relationship. He stayed the night - even more promising. And now he's right here, in the bed.

Or he was, as Danse discovers when he peeks over his shoulder. There is no sign that anyone has slept in the bed besides himself.

It's only what he could expect. The empty space shouldn't hit so hard. But it does. His throat constricts in a most unpleasant way when he looks around and sees that Deacon's bag is also missing.

Getting up from the bed, he finds his pants and the shirt from yesterday, crumpled and dirty. The loneliness is already tangible. Eyes stinging from the cold wind blowing through the walls, he wipes his face with his sleeve. Nothing can be done about it. The agent has left, and he is a sentimental fool. Slinging his cartridge belt over his shoulder, he begins climbing down the ladder to ground level.

When he reaches the bottom of the ladder, he almost trips over Deacon.

"Morning, honey-toots. And what a lovely morning it is. You slept well, I gather? You were snoring."

"Where did you come from!?"

Cradling the coffee pot, Deacon smirks happily. He looks clean and rested - almost properly handsome.

"I was doing some morning sneaking."

"Well, you're here - you stayed!" Grinning like a hopeless fool, he has to stop himself from sweeping the other man into a big hug.

"Yeah, figured I'd stick around until you stopped snoring." He sits down cross-legged, pours some coffee into a mug. "I'm not actually stay-staying. Sorry. But you said you wanted a proper goodbye, delivered in person. It's the least I can do. Plus I made coffee."

"Oh."

Only now he notices the packed bag and the carefully done-up sneakers. Deacon's all deceptively slouched back, but tense as a trip wire beneath the carefully honed pose of indifference.

"Yeeaah. I'm all road-ready baby. Gonna aim for a lunch stop in Red Rocket. Then it's all classified after that."

In a daze, Danse grabs a mug for himself. It's awful being torn between hope and disappointment like this. He doesn't know what to think. What he does know is that Deacon is drinking his coffee too quickly. Soon the mug will be finished. He will put it down, grab his bag and go.

"Take me with you." Danse blurts out. "I could be an asset to your organization."

And with that, he has betrayed everything he used to hold true. If the man he was only a month ago has been here to see this, he would have shot himself for high treason. Lying to a fellow officer to get a doctored stimpak, freeing a high profile prisoner, deserting the ship, killing Knight Bota… Joining the enemy would only be the final logical step. He's not quite sure how he got to this point.

In a move worthy of an executioner, Deacon slowly shakes his head.

"I have to say no, my friend. Our fearless leader wouldn't know what to do with you. Trust me, it's best if you forget all about the Railroad. Just live out your days here in good ol' Mother Nature. Take up rafting. Grow pansies. Be happy."

"No, listen. I have information about the Brotherhood. I could help you." He's absolutely not begging for the opportunity to become a traitor, except he is, and it's awful being so vulnerable. Pathetic even. At the orphanage there were scenes like this, or at least he thinks there was. There must have been.

"Sorry, we don't have any openings." Deacon's worry-lines deepen into a pitying frown. "There's nothing about the Bros we don't already know. From what they serve in the canteen on Tuesdays to why Maxson doesn't have that Deathclaw scar removed from his patchy dog-butt of a face. And besides, you really think you would be suitable? You know that we work to free synths, right? What do you hate? Synths." The glasses are dark, impenetrable. A red eyebrow rises above the frame. "I'm trying not to take it personally but the racism _is_ a little off-putting."

The tone of voice is playful yet definite. No job openings and no discussion.

He tries anyway, almost stuttering, cursing his lack of words. "I would re-consider the role of the synth in society. I mean, I see your point. Synths are people too. And ghouls." _Please._

It happens just as he imagined it: Deacon puts the empty mug on the ground, then rises to fetch his back pack that sits stacked up in one of the three-walled-shack's corner.

"Ghouls, synths, mutants. People are people. There, something to think about when you as a permanent non-member of the Railroad plant your pansies. One has to cultivate one's garden, or whatever."

Desperation grips at him, stronger now. He follows Deacon into the half-shack making up part of Zimonja's ground floor.

\--

The big guy is not on his knees, but it's pretty damn close.

"Deacon. Hrm."

When he turned around a second ago, back pack in hand, Danse was closing in behind him. Now they're face to face. Danse's brown puppy eyes are liquid with emotions.

"I want to say this so that there's no room for misconceptions. I've grown very fond of you.. one could say my feelings are beyond friendship. Or loose carnal relations."

"Danse, no. I'm gonna stop you right here."

First fuck was a mistake. Yesterday's botched attempt - yeah, that had been a mistake too. Blame it on his libido and the appealing looks of the soft-hearted ex-Brother. Right now though - whoa, such monumental mistakeness. He should have left early this morning. Goodbyes are for normal people. Not something for him to play around with. Don't touch what you can't handle.

"I was hoping maybe…you would like to continue our relationship anyway. In some fashion." To illustrate the last part Danse waves a big hand aimlessly through the air, like he's herding mosquitoes. "I could come with you. I don't have to join the Railroad. Or you could come back. To see me. I won't mind either."

Deacon mentally smacks himself in the face a hundred times. "Danse, in my book we don't HAVE a relationship. There is nothing between us. It was just something to pass the time… and I'm sorry if you interpreted it any other way, I really am."

Silence. It's obvious he must be some kind of masochist, because he doesn't look away as the other man's face crumples into something painfully raw and naked.

Where is a Stealth boy when you need one? Oh right, at the bottom of the bag. He could open it and grapple for the 'boy and grab it and bug out - but there _are_ limits even to his cowardliness. He thinks about apologizing again, but saying that he's been using the word 'sorry' a lot would be the understatement of this century _and_ the next one and 'sorry' wore thin years ago. Besides, feeling like the worst person in the world is a normal state of mind. There's a lot to be said about worthlessness but it's both comforting and familiar.

Safe behind his perfect neutral death-mask, he studies Danse. The big man blinks as he struggles to get his emotions under control, face blotched with shame.

"Well. It seems like we have different views on the situation at hand." His voice is rough, like someone who's been crying.

"Yeah, we do." Deacon says. Bad feelings claw at his mask from the inside, threatening to rip it apart. "So…bye."

He hoists the back pack higher on his shoulder, makes as if to step past Danse and exit the shack. The other man doesn't move out of the way.

"Before you leave...'Deacon'..I would like to know your real name. I think I have earned that much."

Should have put the Stealthboy on his arm. Bad time to start rummaging around for it now.

"I've told you already. It's Abe-Ishmael-Deacon-John. My old mam, bless her - "

There's a joke about a phone book in the pipeline, but Danse interrupts him, a sour smile twisting his mouth into a grimace.

"Not even that. You can't even give me that."

\--

It's infuriating. Unruffled and callous, Deacon smirks like nothing in the world affects him and he hasn't just walked all over Danse's heart. "Would you believe, I have forgotten it. Now - "

Deacon makes as if to step past him. Danse moves swiftly, blocking his way.

"Nobody forgets their own name. What is it?"

"Danse, what the fuck." He takes a step to pass on the other side, but the bum leg is slowing him down ever so slightly. There is just enough time to move and block him again.

"This is cute and all but being cornered is not one of my favorite past times."

"Who are you? Tell me your name." He moves closer, making sure to keep the other man where he is, putting pressure on him.

"It's nothing. I'm nobody." Deacon hisses, tossing his head in an effort not to face Danse. He is irritated, good. _Make him feel something._

"Your name!" Danse is shouting now but he doesn't care. Deacon looks like he can't decide if he should go left or right or attempt to crawl out through the wall behind him, nostrils flared and mouth a thin stress-line.

"I'm nobody."

"No, don't give me that …shit again!" Danse's right fist hits the wall next to Deacon's head with a bang. To his credit, the other man doesn't flinch. "What is your real name? Why can't you tell me YOUR NAME?!"

"I'm nothing. You're looking for a dead man. Someone who died a long, long time ago. You think his name has any relevance now. It hasn't." Deacon babbles. He stills himself, takes a deep breath. It comes out like a sigh. "You're not happy with that - then what? We gonna stand here forever? You gonna hit me?" There is a definite challenge in his cold voice, daring the stupid military man to react, to call his bluff. And do what? Punch him, rip the cursed sunglasses off his damn face?

"DAMNIT!" Danse turns on his heels and kicks an old barrel, sending it flying. Despair rises in his throat and drowns out his senses. He's angry at himself, mostly. "You used me! You won't take me because you think I'm stupid. I know you do. Guess you're right - I gave up my life, my - you -" There are no words at his disposal that would be sufficient. Instead he kicks the coffee pot into the wall.

When he turns around again, he is alone.

\--

There are many things that are surprising about nature. The radrabbits have shifted their fur to something less uranium-brown, most likely waiting for the impending snow to make them camouflaged again. Their burrows are located under the motorway overpass. From Zimonja's rooftop, he can see them run over the hills like silver-coloured bullets.

Days pass unnoticed. Caring about nothing and having no-one to talk to, Danse is not sure if he is alive. A lonely gunner gets her head blown off in a shoot-out after she tried to steal from his water stash. Lesson learned: her corpse is expertly hidden under a pile of old rubble.

His anger is abating, slowly. The feeling of being tricked stays.

After three weeks he only thinks of Deacon every other hour.

One cold and quiet evening, there is a faint trickle of smoke streaking the indigo sky. Making use of his new sneaking skills, he moves almost noiselessly over the dry ground towards the source.

The caravan party is not very big, consisting of only two people and two animals. The pair of humans sit close to the cooking fire, smoking, drinking from battered mugs and talking in low voices. When he gets closer it's obvious that one of them is not a human. It's that female ghoul - _ghoul woman,_ he corrects himself - and her caravan. Maude is back, and she knows Deacon, at least by his alias. A thrill runs along his spine. Maybe she has a message for him?

She looks up as he approaches, flicks her cigarette butt into the fire.

"Hey, I know you. The wig mule. How's John doing?" Whiskey on her breath. The other caravaneer glares suspiciously, then clears his throat and spits.

"I don't know" Danse says truthfully. The ghoul woman studies him from under her worn cowboy hat.

It's hard to look at her. Unlike the last time it's not because of her shrunken features, but because _she_ just asked _him_ how Deacon is doing. She clearly didn't come here bearing news.

"Poor kid." she says, and it's the first time in at least twelve years that Danse has been referred to as a child.

"Watch your lipless mouth, lady." he growls. "I don't take kindly to patronizing."

She rolls her black eyes at him. "All right. Gosh. You were friendlier last time, you know, when you wanted something from me."

"You walked up here for small talk or you gonna trade?" The other caravaneer has one hand over his gun, decidedly unimpressed with Danse's presence. He's on the small side but knows how to handle his weapon. Still, Danse could take him out if needed. The man sneers and spits again. "I'm already tired of hearing your voice."

"Take it easy. This guy knows John Doe. Or did. Somehow." The ghoul's eyes are gleaming in the firelight. It fills him with disgust. How can somebody look like that and not kill themselves is beyond him. A perversion of humanity, that is what these beings are. And yet -

"What DO you want, fat-lips?"

What does he want? He's not sure.

"Hrm. Maude. How well do you know John?"

The ghoul laughs: the sound of a broken engine wheezing. "You got it bad. I'm curious how come a city boy such as yourself ended up out here and what you were doing running with John Doe. 'Cause from what I can tell you ain't his type, hun." She halts, sees something in his face. "That's the honest truth. And I guess that's how come you split ways. His type is the one he can take advantage of. The _useful_ type. Don't feel bad about it."

She reaches for her whiskey-filled mug and offers it to Danse.

"No, thank you." He nods courteously. "I, um, I apologize if I was a bit brusque just now."

"That's all right." The ghoul smiles. Her teeth look like completely normal human teeth. "I'm glad I could help out earlier. With the razor and that other stuff he wanted. Plus the extras. By the way - "

She gets up, walks over to the pack animal. There's a lantern hanging from one of the beast's mutated horns. The ghoul woman holds it up as she opens a roped-up sack. As the lantern moves, its light falls over the the many boxes and containers the brahmin is carrying. On the side of a big crate there's a drawing made with white chalk: a crude eight-pointed star, with a cross-shape in the center. For a split second he catches Maude looking at him over the brahmin's head. It's like she is searching for something, possibly expecting a reaction of some sort. When she doesn't find it she immediately looks away, focusing on the contents of the sack again.

Things start appearing. Maude waves at him to come over to her side. In his outstretched hands she lines up a bottle of Nuka, half a candle, some Lad Cakes, and - a toothbrush. He cannot believe his luck. She is an angel in disguise after all.

"Here, kid. For you. If you're around in a month's time we'll meet again, yeah? Next year. Maybe I'll get you some more goodies then. I got the good stuff" She winks, dried out skin crinkling and creaking.

"Next year? You just said a month..?"

"It's the first of December, handsome."

"Oh fuck it Maude, if you're trying to talk yourself into his pants then make it a threesome, will ya?" the caravaneer calls out. "My tackle's getting lonely over here and he's big and strong enough to go around, twice."

Cheeks flaming, Danse makes his escape.

-

He is happy about the toothbrush for several days. Rarely has he missed worldly goods more than he misses the toiletry bag that he left on the Prydwen.

But as he grows accustomed to this new luxury, the sense of futility starts creeping in again.

He might as well go back and accept whatever fate Maxson wishes to dole upon him. At least then he would, maybe, get to meet Haylen one last time. Tell her his version of what has happened, because Rhys probably painted him in a very unfavourable light.

Maybe his betrayal has reflected badly on her, so badly that she's demoted back to basic medical training? He dearly hopes that is not the case, that she's all right. If he went back he could make sure to clear her name from any false accusations. He'd do anything for her sake.

-

After a whole day up among the cliffs hunting for rabbits and collecting wild beans, it's nice coming back to Zimonja. He's in a good mood - for the first time there was no trace of any Gunner or Raider or other rouge elements to be seen anywhere, and no gun shots heard in the distance. Maybe they have stopped breeding.

Throwing the rabbits near the pot, he goes to fetch more ammo for the rifle and a Lad cake. Just a little mood enhancer before preparing the animals for the stew.

He doesn't spot it until he almost knocks it over, because it's so unexpected. There is a little statue of a lion sitting on the ladder. It's so misplaced it's almost not real. Picking it up, he turns it around in amazement. The finely detailed animal is poised on three legs, one front paw lifted as if to strike and its maw open in a great roar. It's been carved out of a piece of wood by someone with great skills.

He looks around, searching in vain for a sign, a clue.

"Deacon?"

Feeling stupid, he calls out a few more times. A bird answers, then silence. Was he here? Why?

He should perhaps burn it, seeing how he was treated by its creator, but it gives him more comfort than anything else. It was clearly made for him, and delivering it here must have taken some effort. He decides to see it simply as a gift without any greater significance.

He studies it before going to sleep that night. Its teeth are sharp and its claws extended. Just like on the paintings in the Brotherhood HQ. He handles it reverently, like a holy relic, letting the light from Maude's candle play over its wooden muscles. He's not gonna go back to the Brotherhood. Haylen will be fine. She's clever and competent and her future career is not dependent on him anymore, if it ever was.

-

More days pass. It's colder still, but yet no snow. The radrabbits are starting to look silly in their white coats. In the mornings frost covers the ground. Danse carefully watches for footsteps, but he only sees his own.

One chilly afternoon, the slate sky is heavy with dark clouds building up from the south. He busies himself with chopping up a wooden fence for fuel.

As he is almost finished with the last of the cumbersome fence posts, tiny snowflakes come floating down with the south-eastern wind. They sprinkle the air with feather-light dots. He halts the axe to catch them in his hand, and only then does he see it is not snow, but ash.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> When I wrote Maude in this chapter I had forgotten she was a human in an earlier chapter, so I'm gonna go back and add that lil' detail :D
> 
> Deacon manages to get two literary references into the conversation here: "I'm nobody" refers to Ulysses' meeting with the cyclops. And "One has to cultivate one's garden" is a reference to 'Candide' by Voltaire.


	15. And last

“He said not:

'Thou shalt not be tempted, thou shalt not be tried, thou shalt not be distressed';

but he said:

'Thou shalt not be overcome.”

/Julian of Norwich

\---

It's not that long-fought-for victory isn't sweet, or that their improbable saviour doesn't like jokes or dark-skinned people (what the heck is that about anyway?). It's not freshly dug graves and bursts of rage.

It's maybe the sense of a job finally done, and thank you very much, and that's it, and it's not like he can sleep anyway.

It's that the needle feels so good going into a vein.

\---

The snow, when it finally arrives, paints the landscape crispy white in under an hour. From his new, insulated shack, Danse watches it cover up all the old, ugly, and broken with a fresh downy blanket.

That night he dreams about Deacon, and this time when he wakes up both the mattress and the pillow are wet. Haylen would have said it was a sign that they will meet soon. Paying no heed to superstition, Danse takes it as proof he's slowly losing his mind.

The rabbits are harder to find now against the white backdrop, but it's easier to spot the dark birds and flayed-skin-pink 'rats. Neither of which are very tempting. Huddling under an outcrop looking for dinner, he spots a cluster of what must be stingwing pupae in a hollow trunk. They are not making his mouth water. He doubts that he will ever be that hungry.

A large bird rises out of the shrubbery and he cranes his neck to see what it is. It might be one of those Institute spies Deacon was talking about. Is there really any other kind of bird out here? He waits for it to circle back, readies his rifle. This spot is dense with dead trees and their snow-covered branches block his view. The former wood, when it was alive, must have been almost impenetrable.

The thought sparks a memory of the opening lines from that book Deacon latched onto like a drowning man. The main character had been alone in the woods, in the middle of life, and they had lost their way. It's actually quite fitting. At 26 he is almost exactly in the middle of life. And he's in a wood. And yes, he has most definitely lost his way. If the book should ever appear again, it would be interesting to continue reading. Maybe there is something to common prose after all.

\--

Among the landscape's greys and whites and browns, the red hair stands out like a lantern in the dark. A tall figure is standing on the second-floor ledge of the shack, hands clasped in front, looking out over the surroundings. Danse picks up his pace. The man is clad in dark colours, sunglasses hiding his eyes. The stance is unfamiliar: back straight and with head slightly bowed, he looks more like a preacher than a slouchy subversive agent. But as Danse gets closer there is no doubt: it really is the Railroader. About an inch of hair covers his scalp. The bum leg is mended, looking remarkably slim and un-crooked now when it has returned to its normal state.

"You..!" he pants, almost running up the hill, only briefly noting Deacon's uncharacteristic silence. Flustered and excited, he comes to a halt just below the towering figure.

One thing immediately catches his eye. Deacon is wearing a black knee-length skirt, complimented with a pair of calf-long dark tights. It doesn't make any sense, but then again so little about this man does. Desire spikes in Danse's groin. That skirt actually looks quite good on him. No, it looks great on him. The contrast of the flimsy material to the rest of his outfit couldn't be bigger.

Especially the coat.

At first he doesn't recognize it, because it is so out of place. The thick leather, usually kept well-oiled and spick and span, is covered with a layer of road dust, and the fur collar is torn. One sleeve is dark with blood and a large tear over the chest has been hastily mended with thick thread. It hangs flatter than he's used to see it, Deacon's lean body not quite filling it out.

But there is no mistaking Maxson's battle coat.

The world shrinks to a pin-point just above the tear on the chest. That must mean - but the mere thought is impossible. Nausea burns in the back of his throat and he swallows hard, frantically searching for an explanation.

When Deacon finally speaks, it sounds like someone else is talking. His voice is deeper and there's no trace of the California accent.

"I came to tell you - it's over. You don't have to hide anymore." He jumps down from the ledge. "Can you believe it, we won." and it's clear the way he says it that it's not himself and Danse who are the winners.

"I don't understand. Please specify."

He's reeling with disbelief; how did Deacon get hold of Maxson's coat? If they engaged in ground battle - the Brotherhood and the Railroad - but the Railroad could never defeat their superior power in direct engagement. They would never get to Maxson that way. So that must mean that The Prydwen somehow was compromised - but that would be almost impossible.

Almost. If they did get on board the Prydwen, they could quite feasibly reach the gas tanks.

And then. His worst fear is like black tar in his throat:

"The ship?"

He sees from Deacon's expression that, yes, _the whole ship_ , and then some.

The ash in his hands. Haylen carried with the wind.

When the words come, his voice is paper-thin, the syllables like sharp cuts. "There were children on board."

"Yes." Deacon's shoulders slump under the heavy coat. "I told you what I was. Who I am. There's always a price."

"12 children under the age of 15." he whispers, barely audible. All those people. His friends. There's a faint voice of hope in the back of his mind, insisting that Haylen could have been out on patrol. She could have made it. She could have been at the -

"Cambridge Police Station?"

Yes. Yes, that too.

Of course. That must be how they got up there. The Vertibrid on the roof. His eyes sting, the wind blowing cold. She was just about to turn 21. How can this man have the audacity to come here and tell him this. He wants to strangle him, scream his name, make him confess that this is just another lie.

He realises that he's squeezing his hunting rifle so hard it might snap in two. It takes some effort to drop it, but he'll be damned if he is going to be that kind of person. Instead he adopts his battleground mindset: formal and efficient, even in dire situations. Setting his jaw, he speaks between clenched teeth:

"Take that coat off. It's not yours to wear."

"Sure. I came here to give it to you, actually." Deacon says. He takes off the heavy garment, puts it carefully on the ground next to the shack's outer wall.

"For what it's worth, I'm really fucking sorry." Sighing, he looks morosely at the coat. "I'm always really sorry aren't I."

The word pierces through Danse's mind; a poisoned arrow settling in his heart. _Sorry_. Time seizes up. He lunges forward, pushes the other man down on the ground, onto Maxson's coat. The back of Deacon's head hits the frozen soil with a bang. Grabbing him by the neck, he presses the side of his face into the snow.

"They're dead, and you're _sorry_?"

The war, the Brotherhood's fascist methods, the pointless deaths, and now the Railroad, such a devastating loss of young life, and they _knew_ it, _knew_ there were children on board. Deacon is not defending himself, just squirms under his weight as he makes sounds - words - but Danse doesn't hear them, only feels the vibrations of his voice.

The realization hits like a scattering bullet: they would all still be alive if he hadn't freed the prisoner. If he hadn't been so compassionate. 12 children. Haylen will never see her next birthday.

Deacon's pulse flutters against his grip. The snow around them is still pristine. No blood has been spilled yet. A part of him is screaming to release his hold, that nothing good will come out of this. Instead he squeezes harder. The body under him is warm, squirming, pressing up against him. It's doing things to his groin that he doesn't want to acknowledge.

Deacon is moving and suddenly his shirt is open, pale chest exposed to the cold, his mouth open in a pleading gasp. A hand on Danse's back pulls him closer.

"Please."

It's shameful and perverse, the way in which his overheated body responds. Sense-memories come flooding in as Danse feels his way over the muscled stomach, digging bruising fingers into Deacon's flank. The responding gasp of pain goes straight to his cock. Brain clouded over with rage and desire, he presses a knee between the other man's legs.

Deacon pushes up against him as much as he's able, bulge grinding against Danse's thigh. In an absurd reversal of his own choke-hold, Deacon strokes his hair, tenderly cradles his face. Danse ruts against him and is encouraged by the answering moan. His grip tightens around the other man's throat as he presses down on Deacon's crotch.

"Yes." Deacon rasps, hoarse and wanton, and Danse loses it.

Flipping him over on his belly, he bunches up the black skirt in the small of his back and yanks down the tights, almost ripping them apart. Moving atop the other man, he leverages himself with a grip on Deacon's shoulder. Going by instinct rather than experience, he lines himself up, barely noticing Deacon's half-gasp, half-cry as he pushes in, not stopping until he's fully inside.

It's tight, hot; a sharp contrast to the cool air around them. Reeling from the sensation, his brain is still able to register that there wasn't any resistance. Deacon must have prepared himself beforehand.

He _counted_ on this happening. Manipulative. Depraved. Danse curses, wishes him out of his life, wishes they never met. The most shameful wish flames the brightest: that they will never part again. Bracing himself with one hand he sets a punishing tempo, wanting it to hurt. Deacon moans, meeting him thrust for thrust. The temperature is below freezing but the desire in him burns bright enough to turn them both into cinders.

\--

Danse pulls out, all the way, and then Deacon is skewered again, hard enough to make him go head-first into the shack wall. Eyes watering from the impact, he braces himself with both arms to keep from hitting the wall. It hurts, being stretched like this, but it's a good hurt. Danse changes his angle and _fuck_ , that's it. He gasps, then cries out as the pressure grows, and any Raider or Gunner can just come and shoot him right now and he wouldn't care. This is even better than what he had hoped for.

He's held in a vice-like grip, every other stroke hitting the right spot and sending electric currents up his spine. The Psychojet buzzing in his veins is both a filter and an amplifier. It was a good hit, or Danse is working some magic, because his body is humming with pure energy. He's surprising himself with how vocal he is.  A big hand clamps down over his mouth, effectively silencing his cries. Lost in a fuck-stupid haze, he bites it, then licks it.  Two fingers push into his mouth, forcing his head sideways. He starts sucking on the invading fingers, mewls and gobs of saliva escaping his mouth.

Danse presses his face into his neck, one strong arm around his chest holding him in place as if he's trying to get away, iron fingers finding their old spot against his windpipe. Deacon moans, a coppery taste in his mouth and sparks going off behind his eyelids from the lack of oxygen. Orgasm rapidly approaching, he pushes back, wanting the other man as much inside as physically possible. It's becoming increasingly hard to breathe as the grip tightens. Danse bites down on the back of his neck like they are two animals mating and the feeling of teeth grazing his skin tips him over the edge. Gasping and gurgling, and without even touching his cock, he comes all over Maxson's coat. There must be some poetic justice in that.

As the aftershocks hit, his face is pressed down into the leather. Danse's weight keeps him pinned in place as the pounding continues. The pressure is intense. His body needs an outlet, needs more release, but he has already come. He squashes his face into the crook of his arm, only midly surprised when it comes out as tears. Dizzy from the lack of oxygen and the chems, his world narrows down to the hands around his neck; crushing, relentless and safe and warm. More sparks fly, molten iron in his lungs as his body starts to spasm from the acute lack of air. He knows all the signs from the sessions onboard the Prydwen, but this time he's not scared. Danse is inside him, filling him, pinning him down, his strong hands helping and guiding.

When the darkness comes he goes to meet it. There is finally - _finally_ \- peace.

\--

Deacon's body clenches around him, and the sudden tightness is too much. He yells out as he comes undone, every last bit of energy draining away. He can only hope no Raider or wolf is around because he is not at all sure where his rifle has got to and his foggy brain has given up the struggle for coherent thought. Collapsing on top of the other man, it's like he's run a marathon. Sweat runs down his face and into his eyes.

He releases his grip on Deacon's throat, eases out and off him, shudders at the sudden sharp cold. It's disgusting. He's ashamed and sick with himself and the situation at hand. Haylen has been murdered by this...deviant, and what did he just do? He has acted disgracefully! Instead of avenging them he has defiled their memory. Desperate for a hot shower to wash away the filth, he turns away and stumbles a few meters out in the terrain. Scrubbing his face with snow doesn't make him feel any cleaner, only colder.

Looking back, Deacon still hasn't moved, has not pulled his legs together or adjusted his clothes. With a pang of regret, Danse thinks that today he's not the same, he's not gonna get up and brush himself off and crack a few jokes like the old Deacon would.

But he would get up. And not just lie there. Danse flexes his snow-chilled hand, remembers with a sinking feeling how he grabbed the other man's throat in a choke hold. Maybe, in his rage, he held on too hard. But surely Deacon would have protested, fought back, before any real damage had been done?

Large flakes come soaring down from the heavens. Deacon lies very still, hair red against the snow, his dark clothes beginning to mottle with white.

-

The plan has obviously failed, because here is reality again, in all it's brazen glory. He blinks at the pin-prick of a needle in his arm. Life rushes through his limbs in the most annoying way possible. His head and ass hurt like hellfire but they got nothing on his throat. The chem buzz is tapering off, leaving him sensitive and high-strung, his insides a screaming void that demands to be filled. He's clammy and sweaty but most notably very cold, lying on his back and freezing his ass off. Signalling his limbs to move proves to be a futile effort.

Someone, probably Danse, is pushing another needle into his arm. Maybe the drug gods smile upon him and this time it's a Psychojet, but of course it isn't. At least it makes the pain quickly subside.

There's sniffling and sobbing. Possibly from the same someone who is now slapping his cheeks.

He opens his eyes. Danse sits crouched by his side, face streaked with tears and hand raised, ready to deliver another slap.

"Hey. Hey! I'm awake."

The relief that floods over the other man's face is a horrible sight. It would be so much simpler just to disappear into the void again and not having to deal with Danse's puffy, red-rimmed eyes and unflattering snotty nose. He's so done here and this life is so done with him. But here's Danse again, in close-up, his voice cracked and thin.

"I thought I had lost you too."

Deacon turns his head away.

\--

Inside the isolated part of Zimonja, the bedroll on the floor acts like a barrier. Danse is crouching against one wall, Deacon leaning on the opposite, torn clothes hanging like broken feathers. Neither of them are sitting down, neither prepared to make that kind of commitment.

Danse feels physically sick. Thankfully the stim' has mended Deacon's scrapes and removed the bruising on his throat. It's still hard to look at him. He gets a sudden impulse to escape the shack, walk west, towards the Prydwen. Or what's left of it.

A futile pilgrimage, searching for something to bury.

"What were you planning by coming here?"

"Like I said, I wanted to let you know. And to give you the coat. It's a good coat."

Deacon grows quiet, his jittery stance a sharp contrast to his former self. He fiddles nervously with a rip on his sleeve, pushes his sunglasses up and down on his nose, pulls at the broken hem of his skirt.

"Why are you wearing that. It's a woman's piece of clothing."

"It's not a woman's, it's mine." He shrugs. "I wanted to look nice."

So he dressed and prepared. It shouldn't mean anything. Except Danse has seen soldiers do the same before particularly risky missions or battles. Taking time to shave properly, comb their hair. Preparing for all eventualities.

"You didn't dress nice for me. You... You counted on me being so angry that I would kill you."

"I wanted you to have the coat." Deacon persists. He sinks to the floor, hands shaking as he picks at the hem of one of his socks. "And, yes, I wanted to give you the opportunity for revenge. A short-term fix, but it feels good, trust me on that. You would come after me anyway when you got the news. I thought I spare you the trouble."

The ultimate cruelty presented as a gift. How nice of him. "It almost succeeded. You almost dragged me down to your level."

Deacon winces. "I deserve that."

Before he can formulate what he wants to say ( _It's not a question of deserving anything, it is what it is. Do you really think taking your life would improve mine.)_ , his thoughts are interrupted:

"You don't mind if I shoot up, right? Indulge the pathetic junkie."

A syringe is produced from one of Deacon's socks. It's an advanced contraption that is new to Danse, with two extra chambers tacked onto its sides. Deacon flicks the needle in the same way he did with the Med-X, then proceeds to wrap a piece of the torn sleeve around his upper arm.

Danse looks on with disgust as the syringe goes 'pssht' and its contents disappear up inside Deacon. After the deed is done, he pulls the needle out, ties off and leans back against the wall with a contented sigh.

It's pathetic and a sign of weakness, but it's also understandable. The time leading up to the Prydwen's destruction must have take its toll, especially considering the state he was in when they split up. Danse's mouth twists into a sour grimace. Killing all those children must have been hard. Poor Deacon.

"The synths - they are free? The Institute is destroyed?"

"Yes. We got the person we needed. Unfortunately that person turned out to be an asshole. Still did the right thing in the end." He fires off a misplaced smile towards the ceiling. "My job's finally done. Time to build the new world."

The new world. It sounds good, because there are quite a few faults with the existing one. Danse mulls the situation over. His head is finally starting to clear, sadness replacing anger.

The Prydwen was a military craft. All the causalities, never mind how devastating the loss is to him personally, were military personnel. They were aware of the risks. Haylen had specifically asked, no, begged, to come to Boston. And if he would have any say in it, children shouldn't have been allowed to enter the Brotherhood at such a young age, and per default should not have been on board the ship.

And if it would have been a civilian ship? Would Deacon still have taken part of the operation? He decides he doesn't want to know.

"Your job is not done." Danse says. "The Railroad needs their leader, or whatever rank you hold. The Brotherhood has lost Boston. Now is the time for the victorious need to step up and shoulder the responsibility."

"Oh, believe me. I'm _so_ done."

He sounds absolutely serious, and tired in a way that suggests he will exit Zimonja and bite a bullet the very minute they stop talking.

For the first time, Danse thinks, he sees Deacon properly. He reminds him of a power armor with all the protective plating shot off. A man who can stand up to Arthur Maxson for days, but is afraid of meeting his own eyes in the mirror. Can't bear to not be busy or stay in one place for too long. No matter how much Danse hates him for creating the framework for his friend's deaths, it's nothing compared to how much he hates himself.

\---

The Psycho rushes around in his head, the Jet makes his ears buzz, the Med-X numbs everything to a painfree, pleasant hum. A good hit of PJM. Chem cocktails are the best. Instant forgetfulness, and a hazy, blurred-out vision to add extra fun. Everything is out of focus but really colourful. Who knew plank ceilings could look so pretty.

Time drags out like a sticky chewing gum and Danse is talking, every word taking forever. - _aaant beeeegiiin tooo uuundeeerstaaannd whaaat yoouu'vee beeen throou -_ He's got enough chems to cover one more day, so there's no hurry with taking care of things. Might as well listen to the big man for a while longer.

Danse looks good enough to eat, despite having very blurry features. Too bad they didn't get to fuck properly, or do anything properly really, but hey, that's the way it goes. He tries to focus on Danse's delicious mouth. The wall behind the big guy is glowing with a white light that's making it hard to see. The halo is back around his head, shining off his wet hair like diamond shards. It's a shroud, splintered and broken.

Suddenly he's overcome with desire to fall on his knees and plead for forgiveness. It feels like the red-hot razorblades that Maxson ran over and into his body, though this time they are in his lungs and heart. Words climb up his esophagus, presses at the back of his teeth.

_Absolve me._

"I want you to know." he croaks. Something is obviously wrong with his voice. "For the record. That the stimpaks you put in me were completely wasted. But yeah. Since you decided to use them‚ I might serve a purpose in getting you out of this wood. Introduce you to some people. You can grow your pansies somewhere more central. I'm thinking Mercer. There is a nice garden at Mercer now. Plants grow really well there."

Danse radiates golden light as he reaches out to touch his face, wiping away a tear that has materialized out of nowhere.

\---

They walk south.

Danse carries two bags full of ammo and rabbit meat, rifle at the ready. Deacon trails a few meters behind, checking for Raiders or wolves or whatever it is that he reads in the landscape. They don't talk. Danse doesn't want to turn around, doesn't want to see his torn clothes. This day is going to haunt him for a long time.

 _It's a war._ Haylen says in his head. _Wasting one life to save countless others. All for the cause. We can't go easy._

It might be he who is the odd man out, caring too much, adhering to idealistic but impractical rules. It is also likely that he has missed a lot of the details about the battle theatre and the factions. Suddenly he's eager to meet the others in the Railroad. Learn more from them, about them. Learn more about Deacon.

For healing to occur, Danse thinks, it has to start somewhere. On neutral ground. They can't talk about the other things, not yet.

"Deacon." He can feel the other man's full attention at his back. "I wish to tell you about a man named Cutler."

In his pocket, the little wooden lion is smooth to the touch.

It's not much, but it's something to build on. It's the beginning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--  
> And we have a happy ending! :D Or, at least they didn't kill each other. XD 
> 
> As for Deacon being suicidal: I figured after the torture, the addiction it spawned, and a Sole Survivor that does the right thing but is a horrible person, he could just give up. He says ingame that the SS is his only friend, so not liking the SS would mean he has no friends.
> 
> Playlist for this fic can be found [here](http://8tracks.com/sleipner/that-s-how-you-got-killed-before)
> 
> Kudos to this [prompt fill](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6855.html?thread=17560775#t17560775) without which the ending would not have been quite as angsty. But everybody loves angst, right? Right.


End file.
